The Shrew War, Book III: A Nameday Like No Other
by Highwing
Summary: A celebration for the ages - for better and for worse.
1. Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Extract from the diary of Winokur Otter, apprentice Recorder of Redwall Abbey:

_Psst! Don't tell anybeast, but it's the Spring of Many Wanderers!_

_Okay, I know that was silly, but what's the use of keeping this practice journal if I can't have a little fun with it now and then? It's not like this is Brother Geoff's official history. I mean, nobeast generations from now is going to be reading these scribblings of mine, will they?_

_But back to the season. Abbess Vanessa very nearly had decided upon "the Spring of the Wandering Shrews," since that species has definitely made up the badger's share of the journeybeasts that have been drifting down from the Northlands past Redwall. Last night, however, the Abbess changed her mind at the last minute and settled upon the new name, to honor the freed slaves who have made their way across the Western Plains to live at our fair Abbey. They are due today or tomorrow, according to our Sparra scouts, so Vanessa's change of heart truly was a last moment affair._

_I believe Arlyn and Geoff are the only Abbeybeasts Vanessa has told. Geoff let it slip to me in a moment of excited weakness; that fussy mouse has never been good at keeping secrets. But I shall do a better job at keeping my lips sealed. The Abbess will announce the season's name to the rest of Redwall at our Nameday feast, no doubt in the form of another of her prayer/poems that have become her fancy and her custom. Wonder what she'll get to rhyme with "wanderers?" It's a point worth pondering ..._

_Most of us never would have guessed there were as many shrews in all the lands as we've seen passing by our Abbey in the past score or so of days. The number must easily be in the hundreds; some of us have joked that Urthblood must have given orders for every shrew in the Northlands to leave its home and come down to Mossflower! What's really strange is that none of their travelling groups have stopped here for longer than overnight. Considering how hard that journey must be at this time of year, it is surprising that they were not more eager to take advantage of Redwall's hospitality._

_This was probably for the best, though, given the frictions that sprang up between the Guosim and the Northlanders. One would naturally assume - at least I did, and many others with whom I've spoken tend to concur - that, as much as they argue, shrews would find a certain camaraderie to enjoy in the presence of their own. But Log-a-Log's tribe and Urthblood's forces were like oil and water, not mixing at all - and we could have used a little oil to spread on those waters, believe you me! For all their roughness, the Northerners were very quick to look down their snouts at the Guosim, as if the shrews of Mossflower were lesser beasts for not having had the benefit of the Badger Lord's stringent training, or taken part in the campaigns to tame the lawless lands up there. This attitude surely did rub some fur the wrong way; one surefire means of antagonizing a shrew is to imply that it's a second-class citizen of its own lands, even if it's another shrew doing the implying ... or perhaps especially if this is the case. One thing I think we can safely say is that the Guosim and the Northland shrews won't be getting together for an all-shrew jamboree anytime soon!_

_Fortunately, a great many of these shrews seem to have bypassed us altogether, coming down by boat rather than on foot. Highwing's sparrow patrols have been keeping an eye on the activity around the quarry. There must be a couple hundred shrews there at least, using their wide log rafts to ferry the cut stone without cease to the site where Foxguard is to be erected. It seems as if Andrus is in a great hurry to have this swordfox stronghold completed, whether under Urthblood's orders to do so or by his own design is anybeast's guess._

_There have been no more visits by any of the swordfoxes to Redwall, nor any invitations issued to us to visit them at the quarry. Andrus remains unfailingly polite to any of our Sparra who drop in on them, and does not behave as if he is hiding anything. The night horizon does not glow there so brightly these days; it seems the work of mining and cutting the stone is winding down, and the main task has shifted to the transport of the blocks to the construction site. Andrus has repeated his offer that we will be welcome to visit Foxguard once it is finished, and his gates will always be open to Redwallers. Perhaps we were being overly suspicious when Tolar and Roxroy came to show us the plans back in midwinter. Our own ferry barge, it should be said, does still lie on the opposite bank of the River Moss, but this may just have been a careless oversight on Tolar's part, and one that is easily enough corrected. Perhaps once the hustle and bustle of Nameday and getting our newest arrivals settled in is behind us, and the weather grows a little more pleasant, some of us otters will take a stroll out that way and swim our raft back to its proper side. And maybe, since we'd be in the vicinity anyway, we might just drop in on the quarry ourselves, and stick our snouts into everything that's going on there._

_Abbess Vanessa has invited Andrus to our Nameday celebration, along with as many of his foxes and workerbeasts as he would care to bring with him. He has yet to respond to our message. The Abbess insisted that it was the neighborly thing to do, but I overheard her saying that this will also be a good way to take measure of what kind of future relations we may expect to have with Foxguard. Either way, we will be sure to have enough food prepared to feed everybeast who might show up at our gates ... even if Andrus shows up with several hundred shrews following in his pawsteps! (Although, for reasons previously stated, it would probably be a good thing if those Northland shrews stayed away ... )_

_The preparations have already begun - and what preparations they are! Even without the former slaves who are on their way here, even without the prospect of possible guests from the swordfox camp, this would still be a most special occasion. For the first time in living memory, our Nameday feast is to be a wedding feast as well! Brother Geoff assures us that this has seldom if ever happened in Redwall's history; it seems most betrothed couples prefer not to share their wedding day with a Nameday celebration, to keep the occasions separate ... and so that everybeast gets to enjoy an extra feast, or course!_

_But the conjunction of circumstances this time around is just too special to ignore. Not one marriage ceremony, not even two, but three, all on the same day! The blissful union of Alexander and Lady Mina would be cause enough for remarking all by itself, but when Colonel Clewiston announced a fortnight ago that there would be two Long Patrol weddings as well, we were all floored. Apparently the Colonel has decided that he must increase Redwall's stock of hares - seasons preserve our larders! - and encouraged his Long Patrols to start marrying and having families. And so it is that Alex will be joined on the groom side of things by Lieutenant Gallatin, who'll be taking the haremaid Florissant for his wife, and the young runner Baxley, who'll be wedding Melanie's older daughter Givadon. For now, the other three eligible Long Patrol bachelorettes - Starhanna, Kynnelle and Givadon's sister Mizagelle - remain unattached, although I would be very surprised if we don't see at least one more wedding by midsummer. I've even heard rumors that Melanie and Clewiston himself may be kicking around the idea of tying the knot, but I will say no more on THAT for now; we historians-in-training dare not go about engaging in gossip, now do we?_

_And what's this now? As I sit here in the classroom, waiting for all our young students to arrive and get settled into their places so that I can help Geoff present his lessons, I learn that our sparrows have sighted yet another group of creatures journeying down the north path toward Redwall! Will this parade of travellers never end? This new bunch should arrive around the same time as the slaves ... just in time for Nameday! I just hope there aren't too many shrews with them - or if there are, that they keep on going past our gates without stopping. I know that's not a very Redwallish thing to say, but I can't think of anything that could possibly spoil our festivities more than a brawl between argumentative shrews!_

_Vanessa certainly did pick the appropriate name for this season - many wanderers indeed! I can't remember a more exciting time at the Abbey. Excepting last summer, of course, when Urthblood and Urthfist were fighting over Salamandastron, but that kind of excitement we don't need ever again if Redwall stands for another thousand generations. But for now ... the flurry of activity getting tables and tablecloths and Nameday best garments ready, and the smells of every imaginable type of pie and entree wafting up from the chaotic kitchens, not to mention the splendid sunshine slanting in through these windows ... I honestly don't see how Geoff expects to teach these youngsters a single blessed thing under these conditions! Why, I'm half-tempted to shuck my novice's habit and join my fellow otters for a quick gambol around our Abbey pond! But the ways of an apprentice Recorder are not so frivolous and carefree, alas!_

_Oh, well! One saying of which our dear Abbess is fond is that nobeast can say what any new season will bring. Perhaps some of these matters which so occupy our minds now will fade to insignificance as new events transpire to demand our attention. I have certainly seen enough with my own eyes these past four seasons to appreciate such wisdom. Who indeed can venture to predict what this Spring of Many Wanderers will bring to us?_

00000000000

"Ow! Watch it down there, Sister Orellana! I'm rather attached to all my parts, don'tcha know, an' I'd rather not lose any of 'em ... especially with my bally honeymoon comin' up, wot?"

"Oh, stop being such a big baby!" the seamstress mouse clucked as she worked on the front hem of Gallatin's fine dress tunic. "I thought you Long Patrol hares were supposed to be the toughest things on two paws. You'd never know it from the way you're acting!"

Gallatin raised a solemn paw of pledge. "On an honest field of battle, ma'am, I'd look death in th' face an' laugh. But bein' nibbled away one pinprick at a time like this is more torture than a noble beast can stand!"

"Then stand still and stop fidgeting, and we'll be done here all the sooner!" Sister Orellana retorted. "You don't see Alex over there jerking and twitching, and he must be just as excited by his upcoming wedding as you are. And as for the damage I'm inflicting on you, I'm using my smallest needles and finest thread. If this were a coarse fabric I was working with, then you'd really be feeling my pricks, believe me!"

Colonel Clewiston stood back, revelling in his Lieutenant's discomfort a bit more than he perhaps should have. Gallatin stood on one fitting box by one window, while Alexander held his own pose in a similar arrangement across the room. Orella and her assistants worked in a flurry around both grooms, putting the finishing touches on their wedding outfits. Most clothing at Redwall was simple, comfortable and practical, hardly anything that could be called royal finery. But, when the occasion called for it, the Abbey's garmenteers could produce raiments that were the equal of that displayed in any ruling court.

Gallatin's tunic was a splendid work of maroon velvet trimmed with white silk, while Alex had opted for a jerkin of deep blue fine linen, accented with green to symbolize his leadership of the Mossflower Patrol. Against his red fur, the effect was striking.

"Must say, Galt, that's the handsomest I've ever seen you," Clewiston said, stroking his whiskers appraisingly. "Sure beats that grubby gardener's smock you've been sportin' lately."

"Hey, Foremole needs all th' jolly help he can get, now that we've expanded our gardens!" Gallatin protested. "Lotsa soil t' turn 'n' fertilize 'fore we can get to th' spring planting! Never knew earth so rich was t' be found anywhere. Much better'n that sandy stuff I hadta work with back at Salamandastron."

"If memory serves me correctly, Lieutenant, you still managed t' coax a decent crop or three outta th' mountain slopes. We always did eat well there, an' you kept th' fare fresh 'n' tasty. Not quite up t' Redwall standards, o' course, but as fine as any hare coulda done."

"Gallatin was your gardener at Salamandastron?" Orellana asked. "I never knew that. So many new faces and names that I've had to learn since last fall ... "

"Well, there's more on th' bloomin' way," Clewiston warned the seamstress, "if our birdfriends are t' be believed. A gaggle o' slaves from th' west, an' a bunch more from th' north who may or may not be stayin' on. An' let's not forget - " he winked knowingly at Gallatin, " - hopefully more'n a few harebabes in th' seasons to come!"

The inside of the Lieutenant's ears turned a shade very similar to his maroon dress jacket.

"Well, well, well," came a jaunty female voice from the doorway, "if it isn't the parade of Redwall's prettiest malebeasts!"

Alexander's head snapped around. "Mina! You're not supposed to see my outfit until the wedding! It's bad luck!"

"It's only bad luck if the groom sees the bride in her dress before the wedding, you silly squirrel." Mina wove her way between the bustling mice to stand alongside her future husband's fitting box. "And besides, the Gawtrybe never believed in that superstition anyway. We believe in making our own luck with whatever fate gives you." She examined Alex from head to toe to tailtip. "And fate has been very, very kind to me. You look absolutely dashing, Alex. You should wear blue more often. It really becomes you."

"Wouldn't really work for camouflage, though, would it?"

"Nonsense. In the deep summer shadows, it would hide you as well as any color. And it would be a fitting uniform for the chief of the Forest Patrol."

Across the room, Sister Orellana put the finishing touches on Gallatin's wedding tunic with a flourish. "There, all done! Now, just don't go doing any gardening in that, and you'll be fine for your big day! Okay, let's get Baxley up here so we can get him looking properly groomlike!"

While Clewiston helped Gallatin out of his dress jacket and back into his regular Long Patrol tunic, Orellana crossed to the two squirrels. "M'Lady, you're the only one of the brides and grooms who hasn't given us their designs for wedding attire. Nameday could be as soon as tomorrow. You'll have nothing to wear!"

"I intend to wear clothes," the squirrel Lady answered primly, then glanced toward her fiance once more. "Although, now that I've seen what Alex will be wearing, maybe I'll have you throw me together a little something that complements his outfit."

"Oh, yes," Orellana perked up. "Maybe a nice taffeta gown of pale blue, with silver highlights, or maybe gold silk ribbons ... "

Mina laid a paw on the mouse's lips. "Shush, now, Sister. I have my own ideas, and they're not nearly so extravagant. But we dare not discuss this in front of Alexander. Bad luck, you know!"

00000000000

Droge was the first one out of the classroom ... naturally.

The impetuous young hedgehog led his laughing, singing and hollering classmates out into the corridor in a happily stampeding pack. Behind them they left Brother Geoff seated at his desk, head cradled in his paws.

"Honestly, sir," Winokur said to his mentor as he stooped to right a fallen chair, "I don't know why you even tried. Those youngsters, after being cooped up indoors all winter, would be hard enough to handle on a beautiful sunny spring day like this even without everything else we have going on around here at the moment. Nameday, the weddings, all the wanderers we've had coming through here, with more on the way ... "

"Wanderers?" Geoff looked up sharply. "Have a care with your tongue, Wink! You don't want to go spilling the name Vanessa's chosen for this season, and spoil the surprise for everybeast!"

Winokur straightened and glanced around. "But, there's nobeast else here, Brother Geoff."

"You can never tell when the walls will sprout ears, especially with those rambunctious tykes on the loose now."

"I strongly suspect those children have fled as far from this spot as their little legs can take them," the novice otter chuckled. "And, if you don't mind my saying, I think your reaction just now would have been far more of a giveaway to the season's name than anything I said. Or are you suggesting I should strike the word 'wanderer' from my vocabulary altogether for the next day or two?"

"Yes, yes, you're probably right." Geoff sighed. "I just thought it was important to try to squeeze one last class in today. There certainly won't be any lessons on Nameday, and probably not for a day or two afterwards, especially if this gorgeous weather holds. I welcome winter's end as much as anybeast, but spring can make my job here just so much more difficult."

"Not as difficult as in the summer," Winokur put in, "if my own schoolday memories serve me right. Don't fret, Brother Geoff - those young ones will turn out just fine, even if they do fidget and snooze their way through a few lessons. They always do."

"Yes, I suppose ... " Geoff glanced up to see Highwing appear in the doorway. The Sparra leader looked somewhat disheveled, his feathers and his green half-cape slightly askew. "Oh, hello there, Highwing. Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing more than usual for these hectic days," the eloquent sparrow replied, strutting into the classroom with vaguely unsteady steps. "I was just almost bowled over and swept away by a rushing tide of squealing youngbeasts. I'd not expected you to have dismissed them so early ... "

"They were not in much of a learning mood today," said Geoff, "as I'm sure you observed yourself just now."

"Who can blame them? Days like these, I almost pity you creatures who are without wings. Nearly every Sparra in Warbeak Loft is out for a fly today, just for the sheer joy of it. It always seems so much easier to slip the bonds of earth when the sun shines bright and the fresh breeze of spring is chasing away the cold of winter."

A smile lit Geoff's face. "I always enjoy listening to your poetical way of putting things, Highwing. Such a treat for these old ears of mine."

"Oh, you're not old!" the sparrow laughed. "You've probably lived less than half your allotment of seasons. I, on the other wing ... but that is the reason that brings me here. I am glad I caught you both here, and that your lessons are concluded, so that I am not interrupting."

"Not at all! I will always have time for you, my old friend." Geoff came out from behind his desk and took a chair closer to the bird. Winokur did likewise, while Highwing settled onto his tailfeathers on the stone floor before them. "What is it that's on your mind?"

"I almost hate to bring up such matters before all these festivities we have planned," Highwing began, "but I have already put this off longer than I should have. As you know, we Sparra are not the longest-lived of species. Different creatures have different lifespans, and just as a badger can be expected to live up to four times as long as a mouse or most other woodlanders, so a Sparra lives not quite so long as a mouse. I know I was but an eggchick when you and Vanessa first found me, a fledgling birdbabe in down even as you two stood on the threshold of adulthood. But alas, I am now older than either of you, in terms of the total number of seasons given me. These days I often awake with a stiffness in my joints that wasn't even there last fall. Sadly, I am forced to face the undeniable fact that I will not be around forever."

Geoff and Winokur regarded the Sparra leader with furrowed brows. The bird's words seemed to have chased away the bright spring day still visible through the windows, and replaced it with a pall of gloom over their tight trio.

"Oh, don't be silly!" Geoff said at last, trying to sound more confident and lighthearted than he felt. "I'm sure you still have many seasons ahead of you."

"A fair number, perhaps." Highwing shrugged his wing blades. "But nobeast lives forever, and I even less so than you. This I can accept; it is simply the way of things, and to rail against it would be futile and childish and a positive waste of living moments better devoted to happier pursuits. But, while I am still relatively hale and hearty, there is something I would like to do that will benefit all of Redwall after I am gone."

"Yes?" Geoff prompted.

"As you know, I am far better-spoken than the rest of my wingfolk. Indeed, thanks to the Abbey upbringing I had amongst you mice and otters and squirrels and so forth, I may perhaps be the most eloquent Sparra who has ever lived. I do not mean to boast, but the inescapable fact is that most of my fellow sparrows are somewhat difficult for you ground creatures to understand. Ever since I rejoined my fellows in Warbeak Loft and became their leader, I have been acting not only as the intermediary between the Sparra and our friends down here, but also as translator. I mean, be honest, how many times over the seasons has one of the other Sparra come to report something to you, and you have summoned me to find out what they're talking about?"

Geoff smirked. "It has happened more than once, I must admit."

"Of course it has. And what will happen in the seasons to come, when I am no longer here to help you decipher what my kinfolk have to tell you? There will be less communication between Warbeak Loft and the rest of Redwall ... which will lead to less cooperation and understanding as well. I fear it may eventually reach the point, generations from now, where the Sparra and woodlanders grow apart again, and return to the bad old ways when the two camps were rivals rather than allies."

"Oh, that would never happen!" Winokur declared, slapping one habit-draped knee with a flipper. "Ol' Rafter and I understand each other no problem! I'll admit, it takes awhile t' get used to normal Sparra talk, but once you develop an ear for it, I'm sure almost anybeast would be able to do it."

"Perhaps," said Highwing. "But beasts naturally shy away from what is difficult, and fall back on what is easy. I do not doubt that your friendship with Rafter is deep and genuine, Winokur, but such matters cannot be placed on the shoulders of one beast, or two. This is the future of the relationship between all Sparra and Redwallers we are talking about here. And even though my birds listen to me now when I tell them how wise and beneficial it is to all of us to share this Abbey in peace as allies, there is no guarantee that the Sparra leaders who succeed me will share this view. The lessons of the past can be easily forgotten, especially in turbulent and troubled times such as those Lord Urthblood predicts, if they are not ingrained upon each new generation. My own ties with Redwall and its history are strong, owing to my background, but that cannot be said for the other sparrows who have not shared in my unique Abbey rearing. That schooling was the key to my success, and the thing which brings me here now."

Highwing looked to Brother Geoff. "I propose that we build a bridge to the future, here in this very room. You see, it is not just how we Sparra talk, but how we think, which will determine our future together. Other Sparra must receive the same training I did, so that they can immerse themselves in the Redwall way, learn this Abbey's history and their place in it, and keep the union between us strong. Starting this season, as soon as lessons resume after Nameday, I intend to send down several of our chicks to sit in on your classes, to be schooled as all of Redwall's woodlander children are schooled."

Geoff beamed. "Why, what a wonderful idea! Yes, we can surely find room for a few extra bodies in here. Do you know how many I can expect?"

"Three mothers and fathers have agreed to allow their youngest chicks to attend. None are yet fully fledged, so they will have to dwell down here with you until they are able to fly on their own. Their parents can fly down to visit them so they don't get overly homesick."

"Don'tcha mean 'Loftsick?'" Winokur grinned.

"Teehee. Good one, you impudent young ponddog."

"Hey! That's riverdog, if you don't mind, good sir sparrow!"

"I hardly deem you've earned that title, Wink, since the only thing I ever see you paddling around in is our Abbey pond ... "

"Ahem!" Geoff interrupted their shenanigans. "Highwing, if these chicks can't fly yet, how will they get down here in the first place?'

"Ah, yes, that is another matter I must discuss - but not with you. I am optimistic that Foremole or perhaps Montybank, working with Alexander's squirrels and us Sparra, will be able to rig a basket on ropes and pulleys so that the chicks can be safely lowered to the ground. Hopefully, it will not be necessary for anybeast to climb up to Warbeak Loft ... although I've a feeling several of our more audacious squirrel friends would relish such a challenge."

"I'm sure most of them would jump at the chance," Geoff agreed, "if they weren't all in such a tizzy over Alex and Mina's wedding. This is the biggest thing to happen for the squirrels of Redwall in a very long time. And not just because every unattached male among them wishes they were in Alex's place!"

"Well, let's see if we can't get this done without any Abbey-climbing," said Highwing. "Once the chicks are down, Vanessa can see about finding dorms for them - perhaps a room that they can share together, so they won't be so lonely being away from other birds."

"We'll hafta see what the dorm situation's like after all those slaves get here," Winokur reminded the other two. "Extra beds might be scarce if they all decide to stay on."

"Our chicks wouldn't need beds," Highwing said, "just mats or blankets on the floor that they can nest in. So any spare room up here or even in the cellars will do. It wouldn't even necessarily have to be a dorm."

"Well, whatever arrangements we end up making," said Geoff, "it won't be until after Nameday, so we have some time to get things sorted out. I declare ... a new season, marriages, newcomers, not to mention what's going on with those foxes ... how's a beast to keep it all straight?"

"I'm not sure, Brother Geoff, sir," Winokur agreed, "but one thing's for certain: getting those Sparra chicks down would be a lot easier if we had those stairs up to Warbeak Loft that Urthblood was talking about."

"That it would," Highwing echoed. "Maybe someday. But for now, first things first."


	2. Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

Down in the Abbey kitchens, the fur was flying - quite literally.

"There's ... there's ... _fur_ in my flan!" Sister Aurelia cried.

All the other cooks and helpers froze at this outburst from the young healer mouse. Her voice had been quite loud enough, and her exasperated tone quite sharp enough, to cut through all the hubbub and clatter of the busy room. A few of the more timid Abbeybeasts cowered, knowing what was coming.

Down at the other end of the ovens, Broggen paused and looked up from the dough he was kneading, belatedly catching on to the fact that all around him had fallen silent and still.

Aurelia, lower lip quivering in suppressed emotion, raised her perfectly-sculpted pudding on its plate and held it up to the nearest window, peering into its honeyed translucence. Making strangled sobs of rage, she slammed the plate back down on the table and snatched up a large knife. Mercilessly she plunged the blade into the jiggling fluted amber dome, destroying the flan's artistic geometry and parting it well down the middle.

The white hairs were, as she'd feared, all throughout her creation.

"Ruined!" she wailed. "I worked all morning on this, and now it's ruined!" Her irate gaze sought out Broggen, and fastened upon the ermine stoat. "You!" she screamed, smacking down the knife and stalking toward him with paws balled at her sides. "You wrecked my flan, you hairy oaf!"

"Um ... are you sure it was _my_ fur, marm?"

"It was _WHITE_!"

"Oh. Yeah, then I guess it musta been. I'm very sorry, Sister 'relia. I was trying t' be very careful ... "

"Careful? Ha! Why, I'll just bet ... " She stomped right over to where Broggen was working and stuck her nose down into the ball of dough. "Aha! Just as I suspected! Your fur's in this bread too! You're shedding everywhere you go!"

"Um ... well, I did take a bath this morn. It's not like I'm diseased or anythin'. Mebbe we could pick 'em out ... " Broggen began daintily plucking at the tainted dough.

Aurelia grabbed up a rolling pin and swung it at him, connecting solidly with his hindquarters. Broggen winced in pain.

"It's not the point whether you took a bath this morning, you idiot! Once fur gets into food, it's ruined! Spoiled! Worthless, just like you!"

"Enough of that, Sister Aurelia!" Friar Hugh sternly admonished. The whipcord-thin mouse chef stepped forward from the crowd, paws on hips. "I'll not have anybeast harming another in my kitchens! And you of all mice! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Aurelia let the rolling pin slip from her grasp and fall to the floor with a loud thunk. "But ... he ruined my flan!"

"So make another one, and put this one out for the Sparra. With all the worms and grubs they eat, I'm sure they won't turn up their bills at pudding that's got a few strands of stoat fur in it. Especially if it's clean stoat fur."

Hugh turned to the beast at the center of the controversy. "I'm sorry, Broggen, but you'll have to leave. I know how much you wanted to help out with preparations for the Nameday feast, but you've started your spring shed, when all your white fur turns to its summer brown. You'll be spreading hairs everywhere you go. I can't have you working around our food."

"Oh. Okay." Broggen rubbed gingerly at his rump, where a welt was rising beneath the snowy pelt. "I'm sorry I spoilt yer puddin', Sister 'relia," he said as he started toward the door.

Friar Hugh shadowed him, thrusting the plate with Aurelia's riven flan into Broggen's paws as the stoat departed. "Here, take this with you ... but make sure nobeast tucks into it who's not supposed to. I don't want to hear about any of this mess finding its way into the mouths of our Abbey children ... "

Broggen made his way forlornly through Great Hall and out onto the lawns, muttering to himself, "Huh! I'd like t' feed this t' HER! Can't blame 'er fer bein' angry, but that don't give her cause t' go whackin' my bum! Gonna have bruisin' down there fer sure. Ah well. Lessee now, where's a good place t' leave this sweet stuff where them birds'll get at it?"

He met up with Cyril and Cyrus when he was halfway across the lawn to the west wall stairs. The mouse brothers were just coming back down from the tolling of the midafternoon bells. Cyril regarded Broggen's burden with mild surprise. "Um, have an accident, Broggs?"

He filled them in on what had happened. "I was just takin' it up to th' walltop. It's th' tallest place I c'n get to without a ladder, not that I could climb a ladder balancin' this plateful anyway, an' so I figgered our birdfolk'd be more likely t' find it up there. Don't want our liddle furry lads 'n' lasses t' find it by mistake."

The two mice glanced up to where Droge and a few of the other Abbey youngsters ran and laughed along the ramparts. Pleasant spring days like this often brought out greater than usual numbers of Redwallers to enjoy the bright sunshine and mild breezes.

"We'll go with you," Cyril volunteered. "We can help you keep that hairy flan away from inappropriate beasts ... although, that Droge can be such a nuisance sometimes, I'm almost tempted to let him dive right in!"

"Now now, Master Cyril," Broggen said, "I already caused enuff of a scene in th' kitchens. Don't wanna be in any more trouble ... "

"Aw, we were just joshin', Broggs!" Cyrus looked to Cyril. "Um, weren't we, Cyr?"

"Sure we were, Cy." But Cyril couldn't stop giggling at the mental picture of feeding the tainted flan to the rambunctious 'hogchild.

Up on the walltop they met up with Smallert, who was helping to stand the afternoon's watch. The one-eared weasel greeted them with yet another comment on the culinary mishap. He burst out laughing when he heard the full story.

"Harr harr! I always envied you fer that sharp-lookin' white coat you grew fer th' winter, Broggsy! Glad t' know it's got a downside. Tho', it did get ya outta kitchen duty ... "

"But I _wanted_ t' help out with th' Nameday feast!" Broggen complained, setting the plate atop the battlements where nobeast would be likely to step in it by mistake.

"Well, ya can't," Smallert grinned, "so you'll just hafta help us stand sentry duty up 'ere! Think you c'n tol'rate all th' sunshine an' blue skies?"

"I reckon I can tolerate it if'n I got no other choice," Broggen said, buoyed by the spirits of his friends. He leaned against the stonework, gazing out over the Western Plains. "Sure seems t' be takin' them slaves a long time t' get here. Holdin' up Nameday an' th' weddin's an' ev'rything. You'd think havin' our hares with 'em woulda sped 'em up a bit ... "

"Latest report from our sparrows says th' gang comin' along th' North Path should get here by evenin'," Smallert said. "More shrews, from what I hear, tho' this lot might have a few other beasts with 'em fer a change. That other bunch comin' 'cross th' Plains should get to our gates sometime t'morrer, an' they're a whole mixed lot - hares, otters, squirrels, 'hogs an' mice. Should be a right happy crew, once they clap eyes on our fair Abbey. No finer a place fer tired old soldierbeasts or homeless former slaves t' settle!"

"Speaking of settling ... " Cyril, feeling a little tired from his ringing of the bells, seated himself on a low stone bench that was built into this section of the battlements. Cyrus joined him without hesitation, but made sure to leave room for their larger companion.

"Saved ya a seat, Broggs," Cyrus invited, patting the sun-warmed sandstone.

The stoat massaged his smarting backside, still sore where Aurelia had walloped him with the rolling pin. "Um, no thanks. I'll jus' stand here an' guard this flan."

00000000000

From out of the gray gloom of twilight came the southbound wanderers. Most of the Abbey leaders, and quite a few curious onlookers besides, stood arrayed along the walltop above the main gate to receive the journeyers ... assuming they intended to stop at Redwall at all, but then, what honest beast in its right mind wouldn't?

"Ack!" spat Log-a-Log in disdain. "More o' them rude, pushy Northland shrews! I shoulda known!"

"Aye," said Alexander, "but it's not as large a group as some who've been down this way - not even a dozen, by my counting. And I see several others with them who aren't shrews."

"Yes," Vanessa affirmed. "A vixen, and at least a couple of ferrets or weasels ... "

"No decent sorts then?" Colonel Clewiston stood off to one side, paws clasped firmly behind his back. "Typical o' Urthblood, summonin' all his rabble down here t' stink up Mossflower."

"Now, Colonel," the Abbess said. "We have a couple of Lord Urthblood's former soldiers living here with us, and even your own hares have been heard to express fondness for them on occasion. I think you would have learned by now not to judge anybeast until you've gotten to know them."

"Oh, never mind him, Abbess," Mina dismissed the Colonel's attitude. "That old graywhiskers thinks it's his job to act that way. Broggen and Smallert have learned not to let such comments bother them, and so have I. One always must consider the source, you know."

"Hey there!" Clewiston puffed out his chest. "Watch who you're callin' gray there, madam! Happens t' be my natural colorin', don'tcha know. I'm still in my bally prime, an' I'll take on anybeast who intimates otherwise!"

"Settle down, you two," Vanessa requested. "Our travellers are almost here, and I don't want their first impression of our fine home to include us squabbling amongst ourselves!"

Old Arlyn turned to address the Gawtrybe squirrel. "Lady Mina, do you perchance know any of those beasts down there?"

"Oh, I very much doubt I would, Abbot. The only weasels and ferrets of Lord Urthblood's that I ever got to know were some of the top officers, and there's no reason any of them would be travelling on their own with these shrews. They're probably just woodland beasts in need who decided to tag along with this group when they heard the shrews would be passing by Redwall." Mina stepped up to the battlements alongside the old mouse and leaned out over them. "But I'll have a look, just in case."

The squirrel Lady was forced to eat her words moments later as the group drew up before the Abbey. Squinting her eyes to see through the gloaming, she muttered, "Captain Grayfoot? And ... Mona?"

The others looked at her expectantly. "So, I take it you do know some of these creatures after all?" Vanessa surmised.

Mina nodded. "That I do, Abbess. That tall male ferret, and the vixen too. I never would have imagined ... " She pulled back from the wall's edge and made for the stairs. "Well, I guess on this evening the introductions will fall to me!"

00000000000

Many of the Abbeybeasts stayed up on the walltop while Vanessa, Mina, Alex and Clewiston went down to greet the newcomers at the main gates. Montybank and several of his otters waited there, along with a number of the Long Patrol, to open the doors and escort the welcoming committee outside.

The others hung back as Lady Mina approached her acquaintances. "Why, hullo there, Captain," she nodded to the tall ferret, "and to you, Mona," she added to the vixen. "You were two of the last beasts I'd have expected to see down here in Mossflower ... in the company of shrews at any rate!"

"I'm to be Foxguard's permanent healer-in-residence, once that stronghold is completed," Mona the vixen explained.

"Ah, that makes sense," said Mina. "Mossflower will surely benefit from having a healer of your skill in the region. And I'm sure you'll find these woodlands a pleasant improvement over the harsh north." The squirrel Lady turned to the ferret. "Captain Grayfoot - if I thought to ever see you in these parts at all, I'd have imagined it would be at the head of a troop column."

"Been reassigned," the vermin officer responded tersely. "I'll tell ya all 'bout it ... later."

"Oh. All right, then." Mina stepped back a pace toward the Abbey. "I'd say welcome to Redwall, but that's the privilege of this fine mouse here. May I present you to the Abbess of Redwall!" She made a sweeping gesture toward Vanessa, who stepped out into the path.

"The evening shades grow deep, so I will keep this to basic introductions before ushering you all inside. I am Abbess Vanessa, and our doors are open to any weary travellers in need of food, drink and rest. Now, Lady Mina seems to know some of you, so we'll start there."

The Gawtrybe squirrel indicated the vixen. "Abbess, I am most pleased to present Mona of Rivenwold, a healer of such talent as has never been seen in all the lands. If you found Machus's abilities to be amazing, I can assure you that Mona's surpass even his. She will be living at Foxguard, and will probably wish to stay here at the Abbey until Foxguard is completed ... although I should not presume to speak for her."

Mona stepped forward and gave the Abbess a paw-at-the-waist bow. She was a dainty and diminutive fox, half the size of the average male of her species, with fine lines, petite proportions and a flawless coat of rich red fur showing from beneath her elegantly simple travel clothes. She was perhaps the prettiest creature Vanessa had ever seen.

"I would be most pleased to dwell here for the coming season, if the Abbess would have me," Mona said in a smooth and melodious voice that perfectly complemented her physical appearance.

"A healer whose skill surpasses that of Machus?" Vanessa said, impressed. "I find such a thing difficult to conceive. In case you were not aware, good Mona, Machus is revered here at Redwall for saving the life of one of our youngsters last summer. The news of his death saddened us greatly. Did you know him?"

"Of course. Machus travelled from one side of the Northlands to the other in his campaigns with Lord Urthblood, getting to meet most of the creatures who live in those lands. I was at his side for several battles ... helping to tend the wounded, of course, not to take part in the actual fighting."

"Ah," Colonel Clewiston said from over Vanessa's shoulder, "so you're no kind o' fightin' beast yourself?"

Mona casually drew aside one flap of her dress jacket; a pair of matched daggers, one above the other, were strapped to her left side just below her ribs. Clewiston and Alexander both tensed at this display.

"These are my only weapons. I know how to use them ... if I am forced to. But I prefer a life of peace and healing to one of confrontation and conflict."

"Aha," Vanessa said slowly. "Well, a beast has a perfect right to defend itself, especially where you come from. I can assure you, though, that you'll have no need of those blades within our walls."

The Colonel, misunderstanding her meaning, stepped forward and held out an upturned paw to Mona. "Right, then, just pass over those knives, missy, an' you'll be free t' enter."

"Oh, no," Vanessa said, "Colonel, I wasn't suggesting ... "

"It's quite all right," Mona acquiesced, unfastening the daggers in their holders and yielding the sheathed blades to Clewiston. "As you say, Abbess, I will not need them here, and I trust this honorable hare to take good care of them for me."

Clewiston stepped back behind Vanessa, not the least bit abashed or chagrined by his attitude of open mistrust toward the healer vixen.

"Well," the Abbess said, striving to salvage the situation, "it looks as if we're now going to have a Mina and a Mona living at Redwall! I hope that doesn't get too confusing!" She regarded the two ferrets, a male and a female. "And who do we have here, Lady Mina?"

"Captain Grayfoot, of Lord Urthblood's forces," Mina motioned to the male, "a brave and honorable fighter whose blade has put many an evil beast in its grave. Captain, the Abbess Vanessa."

Grayfoot performed his own bow. "An honor, ma'am. This's my wife Judelka. She's with child, an' it were our hope that she could stay here 'til she gives birth."

"Of course, of course," Vanessa hastened to agree. "It's for precisely such things that Redwall is a haven. Childbirth can be difficult, and we can provide the best care and comfort for those circumstances. Judelka, you are welcome to the best of everything we have so that your son or daughter's entry into this world is as free of trouble as it may be."

Mina winked at Grayfoot. "Never knew you had a wife, you old campaigner!"

"Yah, well, we're still kinda newlyweds," the ferret captain answered. "Judelka 'n' me was married over th' winter, while you was down here in Mossflower. Lord Urthblood gave me leave t' come down t' these gentler lands t' settle an' raise a family."

"I'm surprised he agreed to release you from service," said Mina. "Few ferrets up north have your seasons of experience under their belts. I would not think he would be willing to lose one of his top captains without very good reason."

"Well, I guess it's in way o' reward fer all my seasons o' faithful duty." Something in Grayfoot's tone said he was not entirely comfortable with this line of questioning. Mina promptly dropped it, inwardly puzzled.

"It must have been hard, travelling here from the Northlands at this time of year while in a family way," Vanessa said to Judelka. "Is there anything you'll be needing right away?"

"No ma'am," the ferretwife replied in a voice so low it could barely be heard. She met Vanessa's gaze for the merest of instants before lowering her eyes to the ground once more, her paws staying folded beneath her travel cloak.

"Just give 'er a nice cozy chair an' a pillow she can put 'er footpaws up on, an' she'll be fine," Grayfoot assured the Redwallers. "We don't wanna be any more trouble'n we hafta."

"Chairs and pillows we've got aplenty," Clewiston said, coming forward once more with his paw out. "Your sword, Cap'n."

Grayfoot's paw went protectively to cover the hilt of his weapon. "My blade's my symbol o' rank an' badge o' honor. I yield it to nobeast."

The Colonel scowled; after Mona's cooperative attitude, he hadn't expected such resistance from the ferret. "Well, then, you ain't gettin' inta this Abbey, chappie."

Grayfoot looked hard at Vanessa. "I'll surrender my sword, but only if the Abbess commands it herself."

"Oh ... um ... " Before Vanessa could decide how best to handle the situation, one of the shrews strode forward and lit into Clewiston.

"Aw, go twiddle yer ears, hare! This ferret don't hafta give up his blade t' nobeast!" The rugged-looking creature tipped a salute toward Vanessa. "Sergeant Fryc, at yer beck 'n' call, Mother Abbess. An' y' can take my word as a shrew o' honor that Cap'n Grayfoot here's as upstandin' an officer an' gennelbeast as any you'll meet anywheres. Don'tcha let this suspicious flopears browbeat ya inta makin' 'im surrender his toadsticker, 'cos that'd be a downright injustice."

Vanessa shifted her gaze to Lady Mina. "You know this ferret better than any of us, My Lady. I'll go by what you say. If it were up to you, would you allow Captain Grayfoot to wear his sabre inside the Abbey?"

A smile lifted the corners of the Gawtrybe squirrel's lips. "If I recall, Abbess, you were having a very similar debate in this very spot last summer about a certain fox whose name is now generally revered at Redwall."

"So we were." Vanessa smiled back knowingly. "Are you then putting Captain Grayfoot in the same class as Machus?"

"Nobeast is in the same class as Machus," Mina said. "But Grayfoot never would have risen to the rank of captain if he hadn't deserved it in Lord Urthblood's estimation. Yes, I know him, Abbess. And I would trust Grayfoot with his blade in the midst of battle, or amongst the children of Redwall."

"Then that settles the matter to my satisfaction. Captain, you may keep your sword." Vanessa ignored Colonel Clewiston's subvocal grunts of disapproval as she waved the entire assembly toward the open gates. "Let us go inside before it grows any darker out here. Most of the Abbeybeasts have already eaten their evening meal, but I'm sure we can scrounge up something fit for a band of hungry travellers."


	3. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

Now that the worst of the cold weather lay behind them, the Redwallers were beginning to spill out from the cozy confines of Cavern Hole to fill the rest of the Abbey. Many had returned to upper dormitories they'd abandoned when the first creeping chill and gusty drafts of winter had chased them underground. Beds forgotten a season ago were discovered anew as most Abbeybeasts settled back into their more normal routine.

Great Hall, which had lain deserted for so much of the winter, was nowadays once again host to daily breakfasts, lunches and dinners. On this early spring night, with most of the Abbey residents having already finished their supper and some of the children and oldsters already in their beds, Redwall's grand gathering space was given over to the latest visitors. A roaring fire blazed in the big fireplace, in front of which had been dragged a large table. Sergeant Fryc and his ten shrews shared a late repast with Captain Grayfoot, his wife Judelka and the healer vixen Mona. Abbess Vanessa, Colonel Clewiston, Geoff, Montybank, Alex and Lady Mina joined them, even though they'd already eaten, satisfying themselves with sips of cool water, cordial or October ale.

"Mmm! Outstandin' fare, Abbess marm!" Fryc declared, alternating between dripping spoonfuls of hot potato chowder and enthusiastic bites of fresh dark wheatbread. "A match fer th' best th' Northlands has t' offer, Noonvale included!"

"Oh, so you've been to Noonvale?" Vanessa asked quickly.

"Aye, tho' not lately," the shrew sergeant replied. "Not since they had their fallin' out with Lord Urthblood. Nowadays, any o' his troops passin' through that village get some mighty cold looks."

"Falling out? Why? What exactly happened between Urthblood and the Noonvalers?"

Fryc glanced at Vanessa. "I woulda thought you'd heard all about that by now, what with him comin' down 'ere summer last, an' Lady Mina stayin' with ya. Ask her - she knows more about it than I do. She was there."

"Oh, we've discussed the matter," said Vanessa, trying to keep her tone light and conversational. "I just thought a different perspective on the affair might be refreshing."

Fryc shrugged. "Not much t' tell, Abbess. Lord Urthblood was up there fightin' his stripes off t' try 'n' get th' Northlands tamed an' civilized, an' them Noonvalers wouldn't lift a paw t' help 'im. Still won't, even though there's still nastybeasts aplenty runnin' 'round up there ... an' I ain't just talkin' 'bout us shrews, harrharrha!" His fellows shrews joined in sharing a hearty belly laugh with Fryc.

"Well, it's just that we've heard reports of Noonvale being under a state of siege," Vanessa pressed on, "and I was wondering whether you might have any light to shed on this matter. Seeing as how you've just come down from the Northlands ... "

Mina shot the Abbess a disapproving look.

"A state of siege? Noonvale?" This cut off Fryc's laughter most abruptly. "That ain't anything I ever heard tell of, Abbess. More like we was all kicked out o' there an' told not t' come back, if'n y' please."

"Oh. I just thought some of you might have news from that region ... "

Grayfoot spoke up then. "I was attached to th' detail safeguardin' Noonvale's borders, Abbess ma'am, up until I was ... um, until I retired. An' I can tell you truthfully, them folks are a thorn in our side, season in an' season out. They take up a huge chunk o' space right in th' middle of everywhere, but don't give us a single one o' their own t' help defend their patch o' turf, don't even let us station any troops inside their territory, an' soldierbeasts like me who could be better used elsewhere end up havin' to stand watch over their insolent, ungrateful hides. It's intolerable, I tell ya. We oughta just walk away an' leave 'em to th' ruffians an' bandits an' slavers. I bet they'd change their tune pretty quick once they start gettin' overrun by beasts who really mean 'em harm!"

The Redwallers were somewhat taken aback by the ferret captain's indignant attitude. It was much the same relating of events they'd heard from Lady Mina the summer before, except that Grayfoot sounded far more exasperated with the Noonvalers than Mina ever had.

"Did it ever occur t' you, chap, that just maybe those fine folk don't want your blinkin' protection?" Colonel Clewiston challenged the ferret.

"But ... they need us!" Grayfoot protested.

"Do they really? As I jolly well understand it, Noonvale's cut off an' hemmed in on almost all sides by mountains an' rivers. Mighty secluded spot they've got for themselves there. Nobeast who didn't know right where t' look would have much luck findin' th' place, wot? Noonvale's been there longer'n this bally Abbey's been standin', an' Redwall's pretty spankin' old. Wot makes you think they need Urthblood now, when they've gotten along just fine all on their own for all these flippin' generations?"

Grayfoot hunched back into himself, unaccustomed to being so forcefully challenged. "Yeah, well, there's tough times a-comin' fer all of us, Noonvale included. If they don't take our help, they'll regret it!"

"You mean, Urthblood's prophecy?" Geoff asked.

"Aye." Grayfoot nodded. "T'was enough t' sway me from whatever path of villainy I might've pursued, me an' most every ferret, weasel, stoat, rat and fox who's heard th' word an' joined up with Lord Urthblood. We came t' see that we'd best put ourselves on 'is side, if we wanted to make it out th' other end of this alive."

Clewiston gave a derisive snicker. "Never occurred t' any o' you lot that that bloody badger's th' very crisis he's blatherin' on about, huh?"

Grayfoot glared at the hare. "No. That ain't possible."

Clewiston shrugged and decided not to pursue the subject. "Ah, well. When a beast's got its mind well an' truly made up, no use wastin' your breath goin' an' confusin' it with th' bally facts, wot?" he muttered.

"So," Mina asked Grayfoot cheerily, seeking to move the conversation along to less confrontational topics, "you're moving to Mossflower permanently, is that right? Do you think you'll settle here at the Abbey?"

Clewiston wrinkled his nose at the idea of the ferret captain living at Redwall - really, wasn't it bad enough having a weasel and stoat dwelling here already? - but Grayfoot's reply made him heave an inward sigh of relief.

"Nay, not here at Redwall. I got ... other plans." He turned to Vanessa. "Abbess, Lord Urthblood told of an old church south o' here that was burned down seasons ago - nothing left of it now but charred timbers an' a scorched, overgrown foundation."

"Yes, old Saint Ninian's," she nodded. "Although it's more like generations than seasons since it burned down. Just a few blackened pieces of it remain. You can walk right past it and scarcely tell that anything once stood there."

Grayfoot went on, "Lord Urthblood stopped there last summer on his march t' Salamandastron. He thought it would make a fine spot fer a roadside waterin' hole. If you have no cause fer objection, Abbess, I'm to build a tavern fer me 'n' my family on that site."

"A saloon, where a church once stood?" Vanessa pursed her lips in bemusement. "Now there's a novel thought ... "

"Not so much a saloon, ma'am," Grayfoot hastened to add, "more of a stoppin'-off place fer weary travellers to quench their parched throats, rest their achin' footpaws, maybe grab a bite or a bed fer th' night. Keep in mind, my wife an' little ones'll be livin' there, so I'm not about to let it become a den o' drunken debauchery or anything like that. More like an inn open t' goodbeasts in need ... just like Redwall, in a way."

"Just like Redwall?" the Abbess repeated incredulously.

"Well, except a lot smaller ... an' made o' wood ... "

"I'm not sure about this, Nessa," Geoff piped up. "That church was very important to Redwall's history. Cluny stayed there in the time of Matthias, and Slager did too when he was plotting to kidnap Matthias's son Mattimeo. And a Redwaller was slain there by jackdaws a generation or two later ... "

Vanessa, not as well-versed in Abbey history as Geoff was, pulled a distasteful face. "I can see why our forebears finally decided to burn it down. Didn't any goodbeasts ever use it for anything?"

"Um ... not that I can recall," the Recorder mouse said. "At least not in recent times."

Alexander snorted. "In 'recent times,' Geoff, that place has been nothing but rubble."

"I was speaking in historical terms," the Recorder huffed.

Vanessa turned to the other Redwallers at the table. "Can anybeast here give me any reason why Captain Grayfoot shouldn't be allowed to build a tavern on that ground?"

"Attract th' blinkin' wrong element," Clewiston grumbled. "Why doesn't he just go live with all them foxes at that fancy place they're buildin' across th' river?"

"Foxguard's gonna be a military compound," Grayfoot said. "No place t' raise a family ... an' no place fer civilian beasts. I'm retired, remember?"

"Retired, eh? Then why're you so stodgy 'bout givin' up your blade?"

The ferret's paw went to his sword hilt for the second time that evening. The Redwallers were coming to see that it was not a threatening gesture at all, but a reflexive one that Grayfoot used instinctively whenever the sword was called into question, as if he was afraid he might be deprived of it.

"It's my symbol o' th' rank I attained under Lord Urthblood ... the badge o' my captaincy. Like I already told ya. An' now that I ain't a soldier anymore, it's all I got left o' that life."

"If you liked bein' a soldierbeast so jolly well, what'd you go an' flippin' retire for?"

Grayfoot's gaze dropped to his plate, where he toyed disinterestedly with his fork. If ever a creature's demeanor discouraged further questions, this was it.

"Like I said ... reward fer faithful service t' Lord Urthblood ... "

"Reward, eh?" Clewiston stroked his whiskers appraisingly as he studied the ferret playing with his food. "Funny way o' showin' your own appreciation for it, wot?"

"Well, I'm sure you'll find it a much easier life down here in Mossflower in a number of ways," Vanessa said to Grayfoot. "So, how did you and Judelka meet?"

The former captain seemed no more enamored of this topic than the previous one. "Oh, she was just a ferretmaid up north. Seemed like she'd make a decent wife," he mumbled, keeping his eyes lowered. Judelka looked at her husband with no particular expression on her face, chewing on her sixth celery pastie.

"Gee, that sounds ... romantic?" Alexander said uncertainly. Sergeant Fryc guffawed, and Grayfoot shot the shrew a venomous glance.

"Oh, dear," said Vanessa, caught off guard by the sudden awkwardness of the conversation. "Um, Judelka, are you enjoying your meal? I know you're eating for two now. You seem quite fond of those pasties ... "

"They're very fine, ma'am," the female ferret responded, her voice barely above a whisper. It was only her second utterance since arriving at the Abbey.

"She don't talk much," Fryc said with a grin. "Got a whole big earful o' her silence all th' way down 'ere."

"Oh. Well, there's nothing at all wrong with being shy. You just let us know if there's anything we can get or do for you, Judelka." As the ferretwife gave her predictably mute nod, Vanessa turned to the vixen at their table. "And what about you, Mona? You've been pretty quiet yourself. Shy too?"

"Not usually, Abbess. I'm just a bit overwhelmed by your wonderful Abbey, and your hospitality. Truly, Redwall is all that I have heard."

"Why, thank you." Vanessa perked up at the prospect of having a halfway normal conversation. "Tell us, if you will, how you came to be a healer, and how well you knew Machus, and how you came to be associated with Lord Urthblood ... "

"Well, that could take several days and nights," Mona laughed lightly, "and I'm sure we weary travellers aren't the only ones looking to keep this an early night. But I'll be more than happy to tell you a little about myself. There are some unfortunate episodes in my past, but I've no wish to dampen the spirits of this happy assembly, so I'll skip those for now ... "

With openness and willing cheer, Mona stepped into the breach and salvaged the brief remainder of the dinner chat, revealing a great deal less about herself than a casual listener might have realized, while Grayfoot and Judelka nibbled in silence.

00000000000

Grayfoot, being the former military commander that he was, slept lightly in this new and unfamiliar place, and arose before dawn. His finely-attuned hearing picked up the first stirrings of the kitchen staff as they headed down to start work on breakfast preparations. He detected these faint, slight commotions even through the closed door of the dormitory room he and Judelka shared, even over the deep rhythmic breathing of his pregnant wife lying under the covers beside him. Grayfoot slipped almost noiselessly from bed, dressing and washing in near-silence so as not to wake Judelka, then quietly let himself out of the room.

He found Lady Mina waiting for him out in the corridor. Not even his keen soldier's senses had alerted him to the fact that she lingered here, but then the Gawtrybe were almost as renowned for their stealth as for their archery ability.

"Good Morning, Captain."

"Uh, mornin', M'Lady." Grayfoot saw that Mina stood firm with one paw against the wall and the other on her hip, footpaws crossed, blocking his way downstairs. "Um, is there somethin' you want?"

"Just a few answers, Captain ... and you're not going anywhere until I get them. Your evasiveness before the Abbess last night verged on rudeness. What exactly went on between you and Lord Urthblood?"

"I already told you ... "

"Mousefeathers! You were a career soldier, and one of Lord Urthblood's best commanders. The day you decide to retire is the day I become a fish! What really happened?"

Grayfoot frowned at the squirrel Lady, but it was an expression of sadness rather than anger.

"Lord Urthblood discharged me from 'is service. Wasn't my idea, an' I didn't wanna go."

"What did you do to get discharged?" Mina asked, eyebrows lifted in surprise. She'd never heard of such a thing happening in the Badger Lord's army; any offense she could think of which might warrant such a reprimand would surely have been serious enough to provoke a stern punishment ... perhaps the ultimate one.

"I didn't do nothin'!" Grayfoot protested, his voice a frustrated whisper. "Cap'n Saugus the owl just flies up there one day bearin' my discharge papers, signed 'n' stamped by Lord Urthblood 'imself. But that badger wasn't through givin' me orders, even tho' he'd just booted me outta his army! Said I hadta take a wife an' start a family, an' settle down here in Mossflower. Said I was t' build a tavern on th' site o' that old burned-down church, so's I could give shelter an' refreshment an' assistance to any journeyin' goodbeast who needed it. I'm s'posed to be an example to th' Redwallers that a vermin sort like me can be a decent family beast an' run an honest establishment. He even drew up plans fer Saugus t' give me showin' how t' build th' sodden place!"

"Did he say why he chose you over some lower-ranking beast?"

"Yeah," Grayfoot sneered sourly, "'cos he trusted me. An' he wanted t' reward me fer my seasons o' service - that part I wasn't pullin' yer tail about last night. His dispatch actually used that wording - my reward!"

"I still don't understand ... " Mina shook her head, shifting her posture so that she no longer so defiantly barred the corridor. "Whyever would Lord Urthblood think you'd want to be a tavern keeper?"

Grayfoot was a moment before answering. "When I was a ferretchild, little more'n a babe, I had an uncle who ran a rundown, ramshackle saloon fer ruffians an' corsairs an' slavers. I always thought back then that that's what I wanted t' do when I grew up." His brow knit. "Then Urthblood showed up, an' all th' ruffians an' corsairs an' slavers went away. My uncle was killed, caught in a battle 'tween Urthblood an' a buncha robbers 'n' murderers, an' his saloon was burned to th' ground. I realized beasts like me were very quickly bein' left with two choices: join Urthblood, or get killed by 'im when we were pressed inta th' service of his enemies. So, I hitched up with Urthblood."

"Did Lord Urthblood know of your childhood ambitions?"

"Guess he musta. Can't say that I recall ever mentionin' it to him directly, but I musta talked about it a few times t' my fellow ferrets over th' seasons. Maybe it got back to 'im that way ... "

"Not necessarily," said Mina. "You know as well as I do that Lord Urthblood doesn't need words to know what's in a beast's heart."

"But I'm a soldier now!" Grayfoot burst out in exasperation, although he kept his tone hushed. "Those fancies 'bout my uncle were part of another life! I left 'em behind in my childhood!"

"You could always have declined."

"No I couldn't have neither. I was gettin' discharged one way or th' other. But he made it clear in 'is dispatch that if I didn't follow his orders 'bout marryin' an' comin' down t' Mossflower t' build that tavern, he'd change my honorable discharge into a dishonorable one. An' I don't hafta tell you what kinda life a creature like me would have up in th' Northlands after bein' dishonorably dismissed from Lord Urthblood's service."

No, that he didn't, Mina mused. With an albatross like that hanging around his neck, Grayfoot would be shunned by all his former fellow soldierbeasts, turned away by the goodbeasts who saw Urthblood as a savior, and hunted by what slavers and hordebeasts remained. If he was very lucky, he might have been able to set up a homestead, solitary and hidden, deep in the wilder regions and lived the rest of his life as a hermit or recluse, cut off from nearly all interaction with other creatures. And such an existence would surely have been a long, slow death of the soul for a former captain like Grayfoot.

"A family!" the ferret spat. "What do I know about bein' a husband, or a father? I don't know how t' raise young ones!"

Mina smiled at this. "I don't suppose anybeast does, until they try it for themselves, so you're not alone there. Um, how did you meet Judelka? Or did Lord Urthblood arrange that for you as well?"

"In a manner o' speakin'. He knew 'bout a small settlement where several ferret families lived, an' suggested I go there t' look fer a bride ... so I did. There were a few ferretmaids t' choose from. I chose Judelka."

"She's rather pretty."

"Yeah, I guess. I picked her 'cos she was th' quiet one - didn't want any ferrethag naggin' me to my grave. She's so quiet most o' th' time, though, that sometimes I wonder if she ain't a little slow in th' head. But she does pretty much whatever I tell her without complaint, so I guess I'll be able t' live with her okay."

"Do you love her?"

Grayfoot straightened in surprise. "What does that matter? Urthblood said take a wife an' start a family. Never said anything about havin' t' love her too."

Mina sighed. With her impending marriage to Alexander, and the way she felt about her husband-to-be, she couldn't imagine what it must be like to be stuck in a loveless marriage.

"I think maybe you're missing the point of what Lord Urthblood wanted from you," she said. "Perhaps you'll learn to love her, in time. Just promise me one thing, Captain."

"What?"

"That you'll take good care of her, and treat her well."

"Well, o' course I will! She's my wife, after all!"

00000000000

Traveller knew the moment he awoke that something was wrong.

The underground chamber he shared with Broyall was as still and quiet as death. The sound of his own breathing was the only noise to reach his ears; the old runner hare thought he could almost hear his heart hammering in that dreadful silence. He strained to recall whether he might have been having a nightmare which had brought him so abruptly awake - nightmares were not at all uncommon for the Long Patrol these days - but he could summon no memory of any bad dream which might have stirred him from his slumbers.

He drew in a deep breath and held it, senses attuned to the space around him. The wrongness did not go away. There was a smell, a taste, a feeling that lay upon the surface of his body from eartips to toes, making his fur bristle and ripple underneath his bedcloths.

He turned his head toward the other bed in the room, but could see nothing in the blackness. That was one disadvantage to living in a windowless warren of underground tunnels; even in the middle of a sunny day, it was always totally dark down here. Of course, hares were accustomed to such living conditions. Most of the inner chambers at Salamandastron had been the same way, and some of the Long Patrols actually preferred the perpetually lightless rooms to the outer dorms with window views on the surrounding coastlands. Normally this pitch blackness didn't bother Traveller, who could find his way around by feel and by memory perfectly well. But on this morning, being deprived the use of his eyes only added to his unease.

"Psst! Broyall, chappie, you awake?"

No reply came.

Broyall had been the oldest hare living at Salamandastron the previous summer when war broke out between Urthblood and Urthfist, and probably would not have survived that conflict had he not been among Colonel Clewiston's score of Long Patrol forced out of the mountain stronghold when Urthblood captured it while Urthfist and the rest of his hares were away in Mossflower. Broyall was seasons older than even Traveller, and when these living arrangements had been made for the Long Patrol refugees here at Redwall, it had been decided that the two seniormost hares should share quarters. It made sense, since Traveller and Broyall were so set in their ways that they probably would have driven any younger roommates mad.

Traveller drew aside his bedcovers and crossed to Broyall's bed. "Hey, Broy!" he said, louder now, but there was still no sound in the room other than what he was making himself.

He extended a probing paw to find out whether his companion's bed might be empty. It was not at all unusual for one or the other of them to get up in the night, and it was entirely possible that Traveller was alone in the room.

His paw connected with Broyall's shoulder, and then Traveller knew. The veteran scout hare felt around in the dark for flint and tinder, and soon had their lamp lit. He stood over Broyall's bed for a long time, regarding the old hare in the steady lampglow. The elderly hare lay peacefully curled up on his side facing away from Traveller, head settled comfortably into the softness of his pillow, eyes closed, and ears bent slightly forward. Broyall looked as fully at ease as anybeast could be.

"Y' knew I was here t' watch your back, didn't ya?" Traveller said to the still form.

A short time later, Colonel Clewiston was roused from his sleep by a knock on his door. It was nearly sunrise by this time, and the Colonel's inner clock told him it was time to be getting up anyway. Shrugging into his tunic, Clewiston made his way to his door and opened it, to be met by Traveller holding a lamp.

The Colonel screwed up his eyes at the sudden illumination. "Wha - oh, hullo there, Traveller. Anything th' matter?"

"Some sad news, I'm afraid," the old scout reported. "Looks like Broyall won't be makin' Nameday this time 'round."


	4. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

The news of Broyall's passing spread quickly through the Abbey, greeting most of the Redwallers before they were barely out of their beds. Vanessa took Clewiston aside in her study to offer her personal condolences and seek his counsel as to how the life of the Abbey should proceed in the coming days.

"We'll arrange the funeral and memorial service for today, of course," she said, "followed by a period of mourning and remembrance. I don't know whether a Nameday feast has ever been cancelled before by any of my predecessors, but if ever there was cause for doing so, this is it. I will honor your wishes in this matter, Colonel."

"Cancel Nameday?" Clewiston's ears flopped back in startlement. "Perish th' bloomin' thought, Abbess! Old Broyall would be horrified at the idea of him bein' th' cause of such a thing! No, no, no, Nameday must go on just as we all jolly well planned. It'd be the ultimate dishonor to his memory t' sit around all pouty an' weepy-eyed when we were meant t' be havin' a grand old spankin' beanfest. Mourn today, an' then get on with things - that's wot Broy woulda wanted."

Vanessa smiled sympathetically. "That's what I was inclined to do as well, but I wanted to consult with you before I went ahead. Very well - we'll hold the burial service this morning, and the rest of this day shall be one of remembrance. I think I'll also give the kitchen staff the option of taking the day off from their Nameday preparations. Traughber and Hanchett aren't expected to arrive with those escaped slaves until sometime later today, and we were delaying the celebration for their return anyway, so I see no harm in taking an extra day out of our preparations. The food will taste just as good, I'm sure, whether we eat it tomorrow, the day after, or even the day after that. Everything will come in its own time, as it's meant to be."

"Yes, I s'pose, ma'am." Clewiston's brow crinkled in mild consternation. "Not exactly th' best news t' greet those two hares with when they get back, but no help for it, I guess. They'll be disappointed at missin' the burial, of that you can be sure. But that's not the kind of thing that can be held up, wot?"

The Abbess agreed, and the word was put out throughout Redwall. As was the custom, the kitchen ovens were allowed to go cold as soon as the last batch of breakfast breads and pastries were removed. The somber morning meal was taken in Great Hall, most conversation held to subdued murmurs. Even the Abbey children knew to behave themselves and not kibitz, laugh or act up once Maura explained to them that one of their family had fallen asleep and would never wake up again.

The most recent arrivals found the situation particularly awkward. Mona, Grayfoot, Judelka and Fryc's shrews took a table to themselves off to one side of Great Hall, and ate their breakfast in virtual silence. They did not know Redwall's funeral customs or attitudes toward death, and were wary about inadvertently committing any social faux pas on this most solemn of occasions. This was hardly the time any of them would have chosen for their first visit to Redwall. Normally, guests of their standing would have been centrally placed and made the focus of attention, but they were just as happy to be mostly ignored on this morning.

Vanessa did make a point of coming over to their table and saying to them, "I realize that you are only just arrived at our Abbey, and that none of you knew Broyall. Nevertheless, I would welcome you all to join us for the burial ceremony outside later. You wouldn't be requested to say anything, but your simple presence would be appreciated."

Mona the vixen spoke for the entire group. "We would be honored to be included, Abbess."

"Aye," Sergeant Fryc added, "an' if there's anythin' else we can help with, jus' say th' word, marm."

"Thank you, but everything is being taken care of." Vanessa started to turn away, but a word from Mona stopped her.

"Abbess, might you want me to have a look at Broyall? I am a healer, after all."

The statement was such an unusual one that for a moment Vanessa wasn't sure how to respond. "Um, Broyall passed away in the night, Mona. I assure you he is quite past the help of any healer."

"Perhaps. But perchance I might be able to examine him and discover the causes for his death."

"Broyall was quite old. Clearly, he had lived his full measure of seasons, and this was simply his time to go. Even his fellow hares believe thus. Why, do you suspect something may be amiss?"

"Not amiss, Abbess. It's just that ... there are always things to be learned from the study of those who no longer have need for their bodies."

Vanessa's eyebrows shot up in surprise; she had never heard such things put in those words.

"I am afraid Broyall is being readied for burial even as we speak, and will be laid to rest before lunchtime. He is not available for ... study."

"Of course." Mona gave a nod of acquiescence. "We will be there for the ceremony, Abbess."

As Vanessa walked away, Fryc leaned over to the vixen and whispered in agitation,"What th' fur was all that about, Mona?"

"I never like to pass up the opportunity to expand my academic knowledge," she replied primly.

"Academ- ... Mona, that hare was one o' their friends! Don'tcha think that's just a tad insultin' to our hosts?'

"I was only asking, that's all," Mona said casually. "No harm done."

The shrew sergeant shrugged. "Have it yer way. We'll be pushin' outta here in another day or two. Ye're th' one who's gonna hafta live with 'em fer awhile ... "

00000000000

The situation was, oddly, no less awkward for Lady Mina.

This was the first time that an Abbeybeast had died since the Gawtrybe squirrel had come to live at Redwall. The problem was, Mina had trouble seeing the Long Patrol as Redwallers in the same sense that the Abbess or Abbot were, or Alex, Monty, Geoff, Maura, Foremole or any of the others, for that matter. She had faced many of these hares on the field of combat just the previous summer - had, in fact, personally slain several of their comrades - and they had settled at the Abbey not long before she had. She was neither happy nor relieved at Broyall's death, but she could not feel fully aggrieved either. This was a former enemy, and even though they had lived peacefully side-by-side for some time now, neither squirrel nor hares would ever be able to forget that they were once adversaries.

Adding to this confusion in her mind was the fact that Mina had never been easy with death in general. She had taken life countless times in her campaigns with Lord Urthblood to quell the wildness of the Northlands and wipe out the evilbeasts there, and she did not fear death for herself in the least. She had seen many of her comrades-in-arms fall in battle, and that had always been hard, but it was part of war. These Redwallers, however, were peaceful woodlanders, and death was not the same kind of commonplace occurrence for them that it was for her. Thus, Mina was not sure how she should react, not for her sake but for theirs. This was always how she felt when dealing with death among non-fighting beasts.

Alexander found her sitting out atop the south wall ramparts by herself while everybeast else was indoors having breakfast. "Something wrong, Mina?" he asked, settling down alongside her.

"I'm not sure how I ought to feel," she confessed. "Broyall was my enemy not so very long ago, and we never exactly became friends."

"He was a Redwaller," Alex stated simply.

"As am I," Mina nodded. "Or, if not now, I surely will be once you and I are wed. So tell me - how do you Redwallers deal with death?"

Alex shrugged. "It's a part of life. Everybeast dies. That's just the natural way of things. We hope that every Abbeybeast has a long and happy life, filled with joy and friendship. And when that life is over, we do our best to help that creature's spirit on to the next world, while we go on in this one. And that's all there is to it."

Mina nodded again, matter-of-factly. "Good. That's the way I feel too. But I can't feel sad for Broyall. Not the way I would for any of your friends here. I'm sorry, but I just can't."

"That's all right." Alex put a paw around her shoulder and held her close to him in the cool morning grayness. "Nobeast can help the way it feels. Just come to the ceremony later, act properly respectful, and offer your condolences to the Colonel. That's all that will be expected of you. If there are to be any speeches or prayers or tributes, those will be up to Vanessa and Broyall's fellow hares to provide."

"Okay." Mina rested her head into the hollow of his neck, unmindful of how such a display of affection would look to anybeast who might venture out of the Abbey below. "I'm glad I have such a good guide to Redwall's ways. Makes things so much easier."

00000000000

The skies above Mossflower remained gray and sunless for the rest of that morning, and a chill wind kicked up out of the north, sweeping across the Abbey grounds like a reminder of the winter now past. When the Redwallers and their guests turned out onto the lawns for the funeral ceremoy, it was under a sky that couldn't decide whether it wanted to drop rain or snow and so, thankfully, released neither.

Foremole and the Abbess had decided upon a quiet spot near the east wallgate and not far from the orchard as Broyall's final resting place. Foremole's team had the grave dug by the time everybeast had finished breakfast, so Vanessa saw no reason to put things off, especially in light of the uncertain weather.

In keeping with Long Patrol tradition, Broyall was laid in the ground in his best dress tunic, without a burial shroud. His fellow hares came out before the rest of the Abbeybeasts to say their more personal and private farewells to their departed comrade, after which the fresh earth was pushed back in over his body and the others were bidden to come out for the remainder of the ceremony.

As they drew near the plot and Sergeant Fryc observed that there was no headstone or grave marker, he commented to nobeast in particular, "Huh, do these Redwallers just go plantin' their dead wherever strikes their fancy, with no signs or nothin'? Wouldn't they start diggin' up old bones o' their ancestors after a generation or two?"

Brother Geoff, walking a few paces ahead of the Northlands shrew, was quick to turn around and correct the gruff creature. "Oh, no. Every burial is recorded in the histories. We know exactly where all the graves are, going back to the earliest generations of Redwallers, even if they're not officially marked."

"An' who reads th' histories?"

"Why, I do."

"Hah! Better you than me, mousie!"

Geoff huffed indignantly and sped up to get well ahead of the disrespectful shrew.

"If Redwall's as old as they say," Captain Grayfoot postulated from Fryc's side, "there must be deadbeasts buried under every bit of this place. You'd think they'd've run outta room b'fore now, even if they did know where they're all stowed."

Fryc glanced around him at the spacious Abbey grounds. "Oh, I dunno. I'd say they got 'nuff fer a couple hunnerd generations worth o' corpses 'round here!"

At length, every current occupant of the Abbey stood out on the east lawns, gathered around Broyall's burial mound. Mina wore a genuine expression of respect, while Mona gazed at the freshly-turned earth like an opportunity lost. With all the Guosim in addition to the full-time Abbeydwellers and their guests, it was quite a crowd.

Vanessa took her customary place at the head of the grave, paused to run a benevolent gaze slowly over the assembly, then began to recite the opening burial prayer in a voice she hoped was loud enough to carry to the back ranks.

"Rivers flowing to the sea,

Seasons march on endlessly.

Each is born to live its life

As best it can through tears and strife.

Friends, companions, goodbeasts all,

Answer when - "

And then the unthinkable happened: the Abbess was interrupted in the middle of her prayer. Not by any voice, but by a loud knocking at the east wallgate mere paces from where she stood.

The Abbey leaders stood staring at each other in uncertain silence for several moments before old Arlyn finally said, "Well, I suppose somebeast had better answer that."

Maura the badger matriarch, taking momentary leave of the children under her care, ambled over to the gate, unlocked it and threw the door wide. The black-clad swordfoxes Tolar and Roxroy stepped through onto the Abbey grounds.

"Oh, hello," Tolar said, taking in the huge assembly with uncertainty. "Are we in time for Nameday?"

00000000000

The rain, when it finally came, was a gentle spring shower that felt heavier than it really was, due to the cold winds. This curtain of tears at least had the decency to wait until all the Abbeybeasts had returned indoors before shedding itself down over Broyall's grave.

The surprise arrival of the two swordfoxes had served as a reminder to the Redwallers that anybeast at all might be able to approach the Abbey unseen if they grew lax in their vigilance. The walltop lookouts, usually posted at all times, had descended to join their fellow Abbeydwellers for Broyall's funeral service, allowing Tolar and Roxroy to march right up to the east wallgate, with nobeast on the other side of the door aware of their presence until Tolar began knocking. To have two of Urthblood's soldierbeasts, of all creatures, catch them in this state of seeming unpreparedness was a point of some embarrassment for the Abbey leaders, and Vanessa was quick to assign new sentries the moment the memorial ceremony was concluded. Traveller volunteered for the remainder of the day's rotation, saying this would allow him to watch over the resting place of his former roommate as well as the surrounding countryside. Montybank and a few of his otters filled out the rotation, since they did not mind the cold or the rain as much as most beasts.

With Vanessa's permission, Friar Hugh and most of his kitchen staff returned to the work of cooking and baking for the Nameday to come. They'd decided they would rather keep busy than sit around with idle paws, moping over the loss of the Long Patrol hare. And so, as midday found the outdoors being dampened by the gusty rains, the ovens were fired up once more, and soon the aromas of a whole new battalion of Nameday delicacies permeated the Abbey, lifting the spirits of the mourners.

The fireplace in Great Hall was set to blazing anew, and the big table before the hearth that had seated the newcomers the night before now hosted the two swordfoxes. It turned out that Mona was an old acquaintance of Tolar's (although she did not know the young cadet Roxroy) and seated herself alongside the senior swordsbeast, while most of the other seats were taken by Vanessa and her fellow Redwall leaders.

"It's so good to see you again, Tolar," the vixen said to her old friend over a simple lunch of white cheese and dried fruits and nuts. "When we got word of how heavy the casualties were at the battle of Salamandastron last summer, we in the Northlands didn't know which of you aside from Machus might also have been slain, and who survived."

"And it is doubly good to see you, Mona," Tolar returned, "since no fox in our present company possesses even a tenth the healer's skill or knowledge that you do. Your presence will be a most welcome addition to the staff at Foxguard, once it is finished. I'm just sorry that we've both come to Redwall at such a sad time." He threw a glance at the Abbess. "And I must apologize again for my entrance, and the way I disrupted your funeral ceremony. I feel like such a fool."

"It's quite all right, Tolar," Vanessa assured him for the third time since his arrival. "You had no way of knowing you would be coming to us at a time of mourning. Of course, if Andrus had sent advance word that the two of you would be coming for Nameday, we might have known to expect you."

"Things are so busy with us these days, Abbess, that when your Sparra last visited the quarry, Andrus still wasn't sure whether any of us could be spared to attend your festivities. It was only decided at the last moment that Roxroy and I should be sent to represent us at your celebration. If we'd had any way to inform you beforepaw, we certainly would have. As it was, we didn't even know whether we would arrive in time, or if we'd missed it."

"Oh, you're in time all right," she affirmed, "and not just because one of our own passed away unexpectedly last night. In a way, it's almost good that you arrived when you did, because now you will be able to see Redwall at both its most solemn and its most festive. But we have two of our hares out escorting a group of former slaves who may wish to settle here at Redwall permanently, and we are holding off on our Nameday celebration until they arrive. It wouldn't be right for us to proceed when we know there are beasts on the way here who have come from such dire circumstances and who have undoubtedly suffered horribly at the claws of their searat captors."

"Searats?" Tolar raised an eyebrow. "These are former slaves of Tratton's? How do they come to be free, and on their way to Redwall?"

"Didn't you know? Lord Urthblood attacked a searat stronghold out on the coastlands. All the slaves who were freed are on their way here."

"Those who weren't slaughtered during the battle, no doubt," put in Clewiston, who had considered it his duty to seat himself with the two swordfoxes, even though he would rather have been with his hares commiserating over Broyall.

Tolar gave a half-shrug. "We are even farther from the coasts than you are, Abbess, and quite occupied with our work. We are not in direct communication with Salamandastron, and have received no word of any such military operation as you describe. Do you know how it went?"

Vanessa shook her head. "We're hoping to find out more from those slaves when they get here."

"At the very least - " Mina looked pointedly at the Colonel hare, " - this should at long last put to rest the ridiculous speculation we've heard from some quarters that Lord Urthblood is in league with Tratton."

Clewiston wrinkled his whiskers and made a show of ignoring the squirrel Lady.

"How goes your work at the quarry?" Vanessa asked Tolar.

"In truth, Abbess, our labors there are very nearly finished. Just about all the stone we'll need has been cut and shaped, and much of it has already been ferried to the building site, along with one of our Foremoles and his crew. The foundation of Foxguard is being laid even as we speak. The quarry will soon be closed again ... unless you good folk have need of anything there."

"Um ... we've been discussing a few projects," Vanessa said, thinking of the stairway up to Warbeak Loft whose status was still in a state of limbo, and the Long Patrols' dormitory tunnels, which might have to be expanded if those hares started having families. Both of those endeavors would require additional stone from the quarry.

"Well, we'll soon be out of your way. It would be rather awkward to have both of us working there at the same time. I hope we haven't been keeping you from anything?'

"Nothing pressing. We've pretty much been hunkered down here for the winter. I'm sure you'll all be well out of there by the time we do anything with it."

"I can't wait to see it when it's completed," said Mona. "A special fortress just for us foxes is the highest honor Lord Urthblood could bestow upon us! It should be magnificent!"

"Won't there be any other species garrisoned there at all?" asked Mina.

"Oh, probably. There will be plenty of room for them, anyway. But it's not called Foxguard without reason, M'Lady!" Tolar flashed a knowing smile.

"We were still wondering about that apparent discrepancy in the plans you showed us last winter," Abbot Arlyn ventured. "Did you ever find out what that was all about?"

"I brought the matter to Andrus's attention," Tolar replied, "and he assured me that everything is as it should be. Those plans were drawn up by Lord Urthblood and his Foremoles, so we can only assume they know what they were doing, eh?"

"Nothing more ... specific than that?" Vanessa probed.

"Well, you must understand, when you pointed this concern out to us, Lord Urthblood had already left for the coastlands, and as for our Foremole - " Tolar chuckled again and spread his paws, " - who can understand moles when they start jabbering excitedly in their molespeech about architectural matters?" The fox threw a quick glance at Redwall's Foremole. "Um, no offense, sir."

"Burr hurr, none takern, zurr. Boi okey, et serpintly be true."

"Anyway," Tolar continued, "any and all Redwallers will be more than welcome to visit Foxguard, once it is completed. Not before, I'm afraid - not only will we be way too busy, but we will have no facilities available for receiving and entertaining guests. And construction sites can be hazardous, and we would not have goodbeasts exposing themselves to unnecessary dangers, as I'm sure you can appreciate."

"How convenient," Clewiston snorted.

"Yes, well, we will naturally be interested to see how it turns out. Those diagrams you showed us were most, um, intriguing ... " Across Great Hall, Vanessa saw, Montybank had come in from the walltop and stood shaking the raindrops from his pelt. Satisfactorily dry, the otter marched straight to their table.

"Them slaves have come inta sight, Nessa, just up th' path a short ways north. They'll be 'ere any time, unless'n they all fall an' break their legs."

"Well, let's hope _that_ doesn't happen! Let me go grab a rain cloak for myself, and I'll be right out. I'm sure we'll all want to be there to greet them at the main gate."


	5. Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty-Four

It was a sorry-looking and bedraggled group of travellers who tramped their way down the muddy road toward the Abbey that afternoon.

Sergeant Traughber and Hanchett led the way, their ears draped forward over their brows to shield their eyes from the worst of the rain. The rest followed in their soggy pawsteps, some protected by travel cloaks and hoods, others exposed to the full brunt of this unusually chill spring shower.

The inclement weather had its effect on the journeybeasts' welcoming committee as well. Only a few hares and otters stood up on the ramparts to monitor the marchers' approach, and as far as Abbess Vanessa was concerned there was no question of making anybeast wait out in the road today. After everything these former slaves must surely have endured over the past few seasons, Vanessa decreed that they be greeted inside the gates on the lawns, and then conducted promptly into the Abbey so they could get out of their wet clothes and dry themselves off before a blazing fire. There was no need for any extra security or vigilance, it was widely agreed, since they all knew exactly who was in this new group.

Or so they thought.

Vanessa stood at the fore of the reception committee, her habit cowl pulled up to keep her head reasonably dry. Colonel Clewiston and Alexander stood by her side, while Montybank oversaw the opening of the main gate and waited beyond to wave the procession directly inside. Word from the walltop - which corroborated the sparrow Roofbeam's reports from the field - was that the group was comprised mostly of mice and hedgehogs, with the odd hare, squirrel and otter. It was a mix one would expect in a band of former slaves.

Traughber answered Monty's hail and helped usher his charges in through the grand portal. While the otter saw to relocking the doors, Traughber and Hanchett moved to the front of the slaves once more and saluted their Colonel.

Clewiston saluted back. "Any problems, Sergeant?"

"Um ... just one, Colonel," Traughber answered. "An' we brought it back with us."

The hare commander's face puckered in puzzlement. "Huh? Wotcha mean?"

The two Long Patrol escorts parted, waving forward a third hare in a small cloak with the hood drawn up over his head. He shuffled forward reluctantly, coming to stand before Clewiston, and hesitantly pulled back his hood. "'Lo, Colonel."

Clewiston could have been knocked over with a feather. He actually leaned forward, paws on his knees and eyes scrunched up in the rain, as if examining a bug. "Browder?" he muttered, water running in rivulets down the furrows in his face. Vanessa and Alex straightened, nearly as surprised as the Colonel was.

The player hare at the center of everybeast's attention simply stood there in the rain looking sheepish.

Clewiston looked to Traughber. "Wot th' bally, bloomin', blinkin', flippin', frogwalloping blazes is this traitorous louse of a hare doin' here, Sergeant?"

"He was playin' scout for th' forces of Urthblood's who attacked the searat colony. When these slaves were freed after th' battle, Browder volunteered t' escort 'em here for safekeepin'."

"He agreed to come here, knowin' how we feel 'bout his worthless hide?"

"Think he planned on bailin' out soon as he got the others within sight o' the Abbey. Didn't count on us comin' out to meet 'im early."

"Hmm. Rather surprised you didn't slay him on th' bally spot, wot?" Clewiston stepped toward Browder, but a hulking otter was instantly at the hare's side, glowering menacingly at the Colonel.

"Yah, well, y' see, this fink's had a right old bodyguard lookin' out for 'im. This otter won't let Browder get five paces away from him."

"Yeah, watch yerself, Colonel," Hanchett added mirthlessly. "That brute bent my javelin double with his bare paws. He's like a badger in th' grip o' th' Bloodwrath when he gets his ire up, so don't go gettin' him mad."

"Um. I'll try t' remember that, Hanch." Clewiston took a cautious step back away from Browder.

"Is it safe to allow him inside the Abbey?" Alexander asked, eyeing the big otter with concern.

"Reckon so, long as nobeast threatens Browder," said Traughber.

The lone squirrel among the slaves came forward and addressed Vanessa. "You are the Abbess, I take it?"

"Yes, I am," she nodded.

"Well, ma'am, forgive me for bein' forward, but we might as well get this out of the way right now. I know there's been some bitter history between Browder and the folks here, but he's helped us more than you can know, and we owe him a great deal. So we must ask, is Browder welcome in Redwall?"

Vanessa considered the question. "I can't speak for the Long Patrol, but the big problem we Redwallers had with Browder the last time he was here was that he didn't seem capable of telling right from wrong, or the truth from lies. If he has performed some deeds since that time which might prove his worth as a goodbeast, then he might have redeemed himself enough in our eyes that we would consider extending him the hospitality of this Abbey. I suppose we will find that out once your tale has been told in full. Let us retire inside where it is warm and dry, and then we shall see ... "

But the squirrel stood his ground, showing no indication of moving toward the main Abbey. "We need to know first, Abbess, that Browder will receive the protection of Redwall, and will be harmed by nobeast while he's here."

"Of course. You have my word that no ill shall befall him that can be avoided. Browder shall have the full sanctuary of our Abbey, and no creature of this community shall cause him injury or death." Vanessa glanced at Clewiston. "And that goes for your hares as well, Colonel, like it or not. I have given my word on this matter. Go against it, and you will have violated the vow of your Abbess and the covenant of Redwall."

Clewiston nodded grimly but kept his tone light. "Righto, ma'am. I'll send th' sorry news down th' bally ranks. We'll not so much as muss his fur while he's inside these walls. Not that we'd be able to anyway, with that red-eyed waterdog guardin' him at all times."

"I'm sure that alone wouldn't stop you," said Vanessa. "We all know how resourceful the hares of the Long Patrol are. Your word, Colonel."

The hare commander sighed and raised his paw. "Yes, ma'am. You have our word. Any hare who tries t' harm Browder'll be breakin' my orders as well as yours."

Vanessa looked back to the demanding squirrel slave. "Good enough?"

"I guess it'll have to be, Abbess."

"Fine. Now let's all get in out of this rain!"

Montybank fell into step alongside Browder and Kurdyla as they all started for the Abbey, giving his fellow otter a hearty clap on the back. The Redwall otter kept up a friendly face and boisterous manner, but after what he'd heard about Kurdyla's steel-bending episode, he didn't want to let Browder's muscle-bound protector out of his sight. He and Maura were about the only beasts at the Abbey who might have a hope of subduing this berserker if he should go on a rampage.

"Ahoy there, matey! Had a long hard march, didja? Well, let's get you outta this cold, an' mebbe pour a liddle shrimp 'n' hotroot soup inta ya! Nothin' hotter fer an otter!"

00000000000

The refugees from the searat timber mill were less than enchanted to learn that there were foxes, ferrets, a stoat and a weasel at the Abbey. But, since all of these creatures were either current or former members of Urthblood's forces, or else closely allied with the Badger Lord who'd freed them, the slaves were able to put aside their unease and share Cavern Hole with them. It helped that no rats were present; after their seasons in bondage, that simply would have been more than they could tolerate.

For that matter, after their encounter with the two hostile and bloodthirsty shrews in the caves of the Flitch-aye-aye, they weren't entirely pleased at the profusion of shrews they found at Redwall either. But, again, since they were all either Urthblood's Northlanders or the Guosim, who were fast friends and allies of the Abbeydwellers, the escaped slaves took them as goodbeasts to be trusted.

"Snoga, huh?" Log-a-Log said when the newcomers explained their reservations about his kind. "What the fur was four o' his gang doin' out on th' Western Plains in th' middle o' winter?"

"Don't know," answered Granholm the squirrel. "But there's only two of 'em now - the Flitch-aye-aye saw to that. You know this Snoga?"

Log-a-Log nodded. "Rotten, no-good rabble rouser of a shrew. Been challengin' me fer leadership o' th' Guosim since last spring. Things got so bad 'tween us, he wouldn't come t' Redwall with us t' spend th' winter. What's worse, he convinced over a hundred of th' Guosim t' stay out there with 'im. Guess they figgered out some way t' survive th' cold 'n' snow on their own. Wonder what those four was doin' out on th' Plains, tho' ... "

"We'll probably never know," said Clovis, the young female mouse. "They weren't talking, and they murdered the only one of us who might have known the answer to that. I wish the Flitch-aye-aye had taken care of all four of those shrews before we got there! Then poor Syrek would still be alive!"

The otter Wharff patted her paw. "Now, now, lassie, we still don't know whether that rat was playin' us true or false. Not that he deserved what happened to him either way, but still, it pays to remember he might not've been as innocent as he seemed."

"Or as guilty as he appeared," countered the mouse Lekkas.

"Aye." Wharff shrugged. "Like Clovis says, we'll prob'ly never know ... "

They sat around the big table in Cavern Hole, before a roaring fire. Friar Hugh had spared some fresh bread and pastries from his ever-growing Nameday surpluses for the slaves' benefit. Most of the Abbey leaders were there too, wanting to hear the full tale of the refugees' adventures. Tolar, Mina and Sergeant Fryc joined the gathering as well, eager to hear all about the battle with the searats.

Browder, with Kurdyla at his side, was discreetly seated at the opposite end of the table from Clewiston, Traughber and Hanchett. The hares had given their word not to molest their old adversary, it was true, but Vanessa didn't want to offer any temptation to test the Long Patrols' resolve.

By the time the various former slaves had told the entire tale in turns, from their capture and nightmarish forced servitude under the cruelty of the searats right up until their arrival at Redwall, nearly every Abbeybeast there was looking at Browder with a renewed respect few would have imagined possible at the start of that day. Even Colonel Clewiston couldn't help but throw the player hare a surprised glance or two, especially upon hearing how he and Klystra had barged into the underground lair of the Flitch-aye-aye to rescue their charges.

"So you see, Abbess," Granholm concluded, "between being part of the force that freed us from the searats, to escorting us here to Redwall - which we never would have been able to find on our own - to saving our very lives when we were in the clutches of those cannibalistic weasels, you can understand why we consider Browder to be one of our own. To be perfectly honest, if the hospitality of this Abbey is not to be extended to him, we're not entirely sure we'd want it extended to us either."

"You see him sharing this table, as well as our food and drink, with you," said Vanessa. "For now, Browder shall be treated as a guest of this Abbey, as will all of you."

"For now, you say?" Clovis probed.

Vanessa folded her paws on the table before her. "I am assuming some or all of you may wish to settle here at Redwall permanently. I am also assuming that Browder will not. His prior history with the Long Patrol would simply make that too awkward. Or am I wrong in this assumption, Browder?'

The hare in question sat up straighter. "Ma'am, if I can get outta here with all my parts intact, I'll be quite quite happy."

"That's what I thought. Will you at least be staying for Nameday?"

"Um ... depends, Abbess ma'am. When's it gonna be?"

"How does tomorrow sound?"

Smiles broke out and spirits lifted all around the table. "Well," Browder deliberated, "s'pose I could hang about that long ... "

Clewiston leaned over toward Vanessa. "In case you'd forgotten, Abbess, four of my hares'll be tyin' th' bally knot this Nameday, an' it might sour th' happy occasion for 'em havin' this fink around for it."

"I'm afraid it can't be helped, Colonel. After what I've just heard from these goodbeasts, I'm not about to kick Browder out of Redwall on the eve of our most important seasonal celebration. Now, if your hares want to postpone their weddings ... "

Clewiston leaned back in his chair. "No, I reckon not. We'll just hafta jolly well grin an' bear it, I s'pose."

"I'm sure it will all work out fine. Now then, we'll get all of you set up in rooms for the night. Browder, we'll put you up on the third floor, as far from the Long Patrol as we can place you, so that you can get a good night's sleep without worry."

Browder glanced at Kurdyla sitting beside him. "Don't think that'll be a concern tonight, ma'am. But, ah, you might wanna look into a dorm with two beds, wot?"

"I'm sure something can be worked out."

Sergeant Traughber grumbled to Clewiston, "Looks like we lost one hare and gained another." He and Hanchett had been informed of Broyall's passing, and had already paid their respects at the old campaigner's grave.

"Yeah, that's one way of lookin' at it, chap," the Colonel replied in a low voice. "Rotter of a trade, tho'."

00000000000

On the way out of Cavern Hole a short time later, Browder found himself being taken aside by Lady Mina. Kurdyla was, as always, at the hare's side, but since the Gawtrybe squirrel didn't seem to be among those intent upon causing Browder harm, the protective otter didn't try to stop her from approaching too closely.

"A moment, Browder, if you please," Mina said, leaning with one paw against the wall to block his progress, just as she'd done with Grayfoot up in the dormitory hallway that morning.

"Um, yes, ma'am?"

"Just want to clear something up. Lord Urthblood assigned you to act as a scout for Captains Matowick and Saybrook, correct?"

"That he did. Me, and those two fine bird chaps, Klystra and Altidor."

"And yet here you are at Redwall, with a passel of vagabond woodlanders. How do you explain this?"

"Thought I jolly well already had. These poor beasts never would've made it to Redwall on their own, an' they had no other blinkin' place t' go, wot with their homes mostly destroyed, their woods ravaged an' despoiled by searats, an' most o' their friends 'n' family slain."

"But that wasn't your assignment."

Browder drew back at Mina's accusatory tone. "My dear Lady, my task was to scout for those warriorbeasts as part o' their attack on th' searat compound. Well, that bally attack came an' went while I was standin' just downwind of it, so I did my duty, as requested by His Lordship. Or didja think those slaves just popped up outta thin air while we were runnin' 'round chasin' our own flippin' tails?"

"You were to scout for Matowick and Saybrook on their mission - and that mission was not over until they returned to Salamandastron. By your own account, they met up with trouble from the second dreadnought while they were still far from the mountain. So why weren't you there with them?"

"Um, they had Klystra an' Altidor t' cover all their bally approaches an' scope out th' lay of the land for 'em ... "

"Fine. Altidor and Klystra were doing their jobs. Why weren't you?"

Browder was at a loss for words at this, while Kurdyla was simply at a loss. While the Gawtrybe Lady wasn't threatening Browder as far as the burly otter could tell, Mina's sharp tone conveyed anything but friendliness. A small crowd was beginning to gather around them on the wide stairs between Cavern Hole and Great Hall. Browder saw that Clewiston , Traughber and Hanchett had paused on the steps opposite him, as curious as anybeast about this confrontation.

Browder returned his attention to Mina. "I'll have you know, M'Lady, that Captain Matowick himself gave me leave t' leave, so t' speak. He wanted us nonfightin' beasts well an' clear o' the scene in case there was further trouble ... which is exactly wot there ended up bein', so a good thing he did, wot?"

"That might not have been his call to make. Lord Urthblood wouldn't have sent you all to do the job together if he'd meant for you to split up."

"Ah!" Browder pounced. "But how do you know that's not exactly why he sent me, Klystra and Altidor all along on this bally expedition, huh? Rather redundant havin' me along when those two birds coulda done th' job just fine on their own. Maybe Urthblood's good old prophetic second sight told him I'd be needed t' do just wot I did."

This gave Mina pause. "Yes. Perhaps ... although it is always a hazardous proposition for ordinary creatures such as ourselves to fancy we might know what goes on in the mind of somebeast as heavily fated as Lord Urthbood. But you should still be aware that what you did came perilously close to desertion."

"Desertion?" Browder actually scowled at his accuser. "I'm afraid you have me mistaken for a soldierbeast, ma'am. T'would be utterly impossible for me to desert, since this hare never enlisted, volunteered, signed up, enrolled or was conscripted nor drafted for military service. And I'd kindly beg you t' remember that th' next bally time you're thinkin' of castin' such unseemly aspersions about yours truly all about th' blinkin' place, wot wot?"

Mina drew back at the hare's indignant outburst. "But ... then why did you go on that mission?"

"Because he asked me to! Or do you fancy that only enforced soldierly servitude exists in wotever world you live in?"

"Speak to me in that tone just once more, and I'll box your ears, mandate from the Abbess or not."

Now that Mina had finally voiced a physical threat against Browder, even a mostly frivolous one, Kurdyla no longer held any doubts as to what he must do. Striding forward, he actually bumped Mina back a pace on the step with his broad chest.

"Browder's a good 'n' courageous beast! Don't you go sayin' bad things about him, or sayin' you'll hurt 'im!"

"This conversation is over," Mina said frostily, quickly recollecting her wits in the face of the intimidating otter and turning to march away. Montybank's steadying paw on Kurdyla's shoulder dissuaded the former slave from pursuing the matter.

Clewiston turned to his fellow Long Patrols. "Did you hear that?"

"Every word," replied Traughber, and Hanchett nodded along with him. "That hare sure gave our snobby squirrel princess a right old earful!"

"Yah," said Clewiston, watching Browder and Kurdyla ascend the stairs ahead of them. "If he can get her all antagonized like that, maybe Browder's not entirely bad after all!"

00000000000

Brother Geoff, walking with some of the other slaves, brought up the rear as the assembly let out of Cavern Hole. "I simply must get this all written down in my journal!" the excited Recorder mouse said. "The Flitchaye have been mentioned in our histories going back to the time of our founder Martin the Warrior himself! To know that they're still around after all this time ... that they've relocated to the Western Plains and now call themselves the Flitch-aye-aye ... this is amazing!"

"Well, they might not be around much longer," the mouse Lekkas grimly informed him. "That falcon said something about alerting Lord Urthblood to the situation ... and that that badger would not allow a danger like the Flitch-aye-aye to remain in these lands."

"Oh dear!" Geoff blurted. "You mean, Urthblood's going to slay them all?"

"If a hundred of Urthblood's squirrels could do to that searat lumber mill what I saw them do, then those villainous weasel savages wouldn't stand a chance ... "

"Oh. That's too bad."

"Too bad?" Lekkas, who was lean and powerful from his seasons in the searat compound, looked over the prim and proper historian. "You know, you remind me a little of Wexford ... "

"Wexford?" Geoff scratched his ear. He'd been exposed to so many new names and faces lately, it was difficult keeping them all straight.

"Yes. Our friend who was killed and eaten by the Flitch-aye-aye. Don't forget to put his name in your precious journal as well." That said, Lekkas stormed up the steps ahead of Geoff.

"I'm sorry ... I meant no offense!" the Recorder called after Lekkas, but the slavemouse didn't look back.

Geoff felt a paw on his shoulder, turned to see that Clovis had come up alongside him. "It's all right. You weren't there. You couldn't know how horrible it was. Those Flitch-aye-aye are bloodthirsty monsters, and every last one of them should die. Otherwise they'll only kill more innocent travellers."

"Yes. Yes, you're right, of course. Sometimes I get so busy thinking like an historian that I forget these are real creatures with real lives that we're talking about. It's just that the Western Plains seem so far away, when you've lived at Redwall all your life the way I have. Although, they're a lot closer than Salamandastron, and events there reached in to touch the very heart of this Abbey last summer."

"Yes," Clovis nodded, "this Lord Urthblood seems to have his paw in everything, no matter where I go - the searat camp, the Western Plains, here at Redwall, out on the coast ... "

"That he does," Geoff agreed solemnly. "That he does."


	6. Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty-Five

Somehow, rooms and beds were found for all the new arrivals. It helped that the Guosim continued to sleep on their mats down in Cavern Hole, even though winter was past. Still, it was a challenge, but Redwall proved equal to the task.

Browder took a solitary room up on the third floor, in keeping with Vanessa's suggestion that he be situated as far from the Long Patrol quarters as possible, more for his own peace of mind than anything else. The chamber lacked room for Kurdyla, and Browder steadfastly refused to share his single bed with the near-badger-sized otter. In the end, it was the hare's own determined protests that finally convinced Kurdyla to give in on the matter.

But Kurdyla would not abandon his self-appointed bodyguard duty entirely. When it became clear that he would not be sharing Browder's bedchamber, the otter requested that a stool be placed in the hall so that he could sit outside his friend's door all night. The brothers and sisters attending him tried to convince Kurdyla to take a comfy bed for himself, but when they saw he would not be swayed, they provided him not with a stool but a large cushioned chair that took four mice to maneuver into place. It was set in the corridor just beside Browder's bedroom door, so that nobeast would be able to come or go without Kurdyla's knowledge. If the otter was intent upon sitting up all night, at least he would do so in comfort.

The rest of the former slaves willingly accepted whatever sleeping arrangements were available. After their seasons of captivity and their long march to Redwall, they were so happy just to be getting soft beds that they didn't care in the least whether those beds were in private chambers or common dorm rooms shared by many. And so they were all settled in for the night after an early supper, most snoozing under their covers before the last indigo vestiges of the departed day had completely dimmed from the sky.

If the slaves were to have a full night's rest, much of the Abbey's regular population would be toiling well past dark to prepare for the next day's feast. Sister Orellana and her seamstress helpers hastened to put the finishing touches on the bride and groom finery so that all would be perfect for the triple wedding. And down in the kitchens ...

Mice, moles, otters and hares all jostled in and out of each other's way, miraculously avoiding collisions (most of the time, anyway) as they labored under Friar Hugh's direction. It was like a symphony of culinary chaos, with Hugh as the frazzled concertmaster somehow managing to coax the music of flavor and the melody of recipes out of the mayhem.

"Now, Brother Joel, don't let your cream stand too long, or it'll loose the proper consistency! Sister Aurelia, those flans look splendid! See, I told you not to let that little mishap with Broggen get you down! Sister Apricot, you're mincing those apricots too fine! Yes, I know that's your name, but I'm the Friar here! Hey, you waterdogs, stop slopping the water for your hotroot soup all over my stoves - you're putting out the flames! And don't put too much hotroot in it this time - we're not all otters, you know! Hey, Sergeant, keep your greedy paws out of those honey-glazed cherries! We'll need every one of those for the centerpiece cakes! And all you larger beasts, give the moles room to work! Their deeper'n'ever pies are the main course, so they get right-of-way over salads and appetizers! Sister Rosette, you look like you're about to faint! Get somebeast to help you with kneading that dough if it's too much for - _NO_! Sister Blanchard! Can't you tell the difference between cinnamon and paprika? We don't want our apple cobbler to end up tasting like these otters' stew! And will somebeast check the elderberry pies? We don't want their crusts to burn like the last batch!"

And on and on it went. Somehow, in all the confusion, it occurred to Sister Blanche that it might be nice to carry a bowl of shrimp and hotroot soup up to Kurdyla. The brawny otter had certainly seemed to like it during supper, and if he was planning to stay awake all night to guard Browder, he might appreciate something hot and spicy to help keep him from drifting off.

Blanche had the young otter Brydon ladle out a bowlful of the potent broth, then turned to find a free tray on which to carry it so she wouldn't burn her paws. Mizagelle the haremaid bustled by at that moment, squeezing herself between the otter and the table as she carried ingredients for one of the hares' dishes to their work station.

Nobeast saw Mizagelle empty a discreetly-held vial into the bowl of soup. Her motion was very fluid and natural, and it only took a moment; she barely had to pause before moving on again. In the melee of activity that reigned over the kitchens, her secretive and subtle motion was utterly lost.

Blanche turned back around with the tray, gingerly set the soup bowl upon it, and started out of the kitchens, unaware that anything might be amiss. "This should taste good on a chilly spring night like this!"

Mizagelle, peering out of the corner of her eye, watched Sister Blanche depart, then returned to her carrot cake, trying not to let anybeast else see the secretive smile playing at the edges of her lips.

00000000000

There wasn't a hare at Redwall who didn't want to see Browder dead.

Most, however, felt sufficiently bound by the decree of their Abbess and the orders of their Colonel not to act upon their vengeful desires. And if this wasn't enough of a deterrent, there was also the near-mad, Bloodwrathful otter who seemed determined not to leave Browder unprotected for even a moment.

Mizagelle's hatred of the player hare ran deeper than most of the Long Patrols'. It was she, along with her sister Givadon and their mother Melanie, who had been the first to encounter Browder in the waste dunes east of Salamandastron, and been taken in by his lies about Urthblood conquering Redwall. It was they who'd taken this agent of evil straight back to the mountain where he poisoned the minds of all their fellow hares and Lord Urthfist himself with his false words. And even when the three of them had escorted Browder back out to check on his claim that he'd traversed the mountains, they'd been hoodwinked, focusing on the physical evidence instead of the character of the beast delivering the message. Of course Urthblood would have made sure the telltale signs would match Browder's story. But that bloody badger had been equally shrewd in his choice of agent provocateur. Browder had fooled them all.

And Mizagelle hated him for it.

She'd often wondered what she might do if she had a chance to get her paws on him, and these ruminations were always unpleasant to a greater or lesser degree. But she'd always considered this all just idle speculation, because Browder would have to be insane to return to a place where he must surely know his life would be forfeit. Yet here he was, delivered into their paws by a twist of fate.

In spite of the iron-willed sureness of her actions, confusion warred in the young haremaid's brain. She knew what she must do, in violation of Vanessa's mandate and Clewiston's orders, and the likelihood that it might very well get her outcast from Redwall and dishonorably discharged from the Long Patrol, or worse. She knew Browder was weak and wicked and undeserving of life, despite the testimony of the goodbeasts who might not be alive now if not for his selfless actions. She knew ...

Or did she?

Doubts of which she was not even aware nibbled at her resolve even as she crept up the stairs to the third floor dormitories. It was well past midnight, and the few beasts still awake were all down in the kitchens, slaving away and oblivious to anything that was happening elsewhere in the Abbey. Her sleeping potion would have had ample time to have worked by now, the overpowering spiciness of the hotroot proof against Kurdyla detecting anything wrong with the taste. Nevertheless, Mizagelle approached her target with the full measure of Long Patrol stealth that her training provided.

Kurdyla sat slumped in his chair, head on his chest and eyes closed. To make sure he was fully unconscious, Mizagelle grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him, then actually pulled him forward until he fell out of the chair and landed on the floor with a thump. Still he did not stir, nor did anybeast else poke its head out into the hall to see what the noise was. The otter's position was an awkward one, with head bent at an ungainly angle and supporting the upper body in a kneeling posture; if he stayed that way for long, he was sure to awake with a doozy of a stiff neck. Ah, well - not her concern. But if he was faking unconsciousness, he surely would have chosen another, less awkward position in which to have landed. That and the empty bowl with spoon on the floor alongside the chair emboldened Mizagelle to proceed.

Her heart was pumping furiously as she tried the door, found it locked, and fished her picks out of her pocket. She strained to keep all her senses attuned to her surroundings, alert for anybeast who might unexpectedly come upon her in her nefarious work, and found the effort requiring the fullest extent of her concentration. She forced herself to take calm and measured breaths, forced her paws to remain steady through sheer force of will. The excitement that coursed through her now was partly battle fervor - for she did indeed hold that she was about to engage an enemy - and partly the thrill of acting in opposition to the rules laid down by her Abbess and her commanding officer.

She had never felt more alive. But it did not occur to her that this adrenaline rush might leave her vulnerable in ways she had never imagined.

The lock mechanism gave a satisfying click!, and Mizagelle carefully undid the latch and pushed the door open a crack to make sure she'd done the job right. Grinning like a fiend in the dark, she slipped her lockpicks back into her pocket and sidled into Browder's bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her.

Browder awoke with a start, a sudden weight upon his chest. He found the young female hare straddling his torso, pinning him under his bedcovers with her body. Her paw clamped down hard over his mouth, muffling any exclamation he might have been about to make.

Mizagelle bent down low so that their faces nearly touched, her free paw gripped around the hilt of the dagger she had tucked in the back of her belt.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you," she hissed into his ear. "Just one ... "

00000000000

It was halfway toward dawn, and Sister Blanche was dead on her paws.

Most of the food for the Nameday feast was ready, or very nearly so; a few of the hot dishes would require a quick re-heating on the morrow, while the moles' formidable deeper 'n' ever pies slumbered in slightly warmed ovens to maintain their temperature throughout without burning. For the most part, however, their work here was done, and so Friar Hugh barked and shouted for everybeast to clear his kitchens and catch at least half a night's sleep so they would be able to enjoy the celebration themselves without falling face first into their meals.

Wiping her floury paws as she prepared to leave, Blanche remembered the otter up on the third floor to whom she'd delivered the hotroot and shrimp soup. Her own room was just down the hall from Browder's, so she would be able to check on Kurdyla on her way to bed. At the last moment, she poured a tall tumbler of cool water from the storeroom behind the kitchens and carried it upstairs with her. Kurdyla might appreciate something to quench his thirst, and if he declined she could always drink it herself. Toiling in the hot kitchens until such wee hours was work to parch anybeast's throat.

Blanche almost dropped the tumbler when she got close enough to see how Kurdyla sprawled on the floor in a half-kneeling position, his head twisted to one side with cheek pressed against the cool stone. Her first thought was that he was dead, his posture was so preposterous. Setting down the water, she rushed forward and slowly lowered him over onto his side. He was still warm and soft to her touch, and once she got him laid out on the floor he emitted a long, low snore. At least her worst fears were allayed ... for the moment.

She glanced toward the door with apprehension. That Kurdyla had been drugged she had no doubt, and there could be but one reason why anybeast at Redwall would do such a thing. Had the would-be assassin heard Blanche coming down the corridor and fled? Had the killer even been here yet? Or was it already too late?

Sister Blanche hesitantly went to the door and tried the handle. The door was locked, as it ought to have been. She raised her paw and knocked softly, then again more loudly. "Mr. Browder? Mr. Browder, is everything all right in there?"

No answer came immediately. Blanche pressed her ear to the door, straining to make out any sound of a struggle or, preferably, the same kind of sonorous snoring that came from Kurdyla behind her.

She wasn't sure, but she thought she could hear faint murmurs coming from within. Almost as if two beasts were holding a hushed conversation with each other.

"Browder!" the mouse repeated, with greater urgency now. "Browder, are you all right?"

At last the reply came, muffled through the solid oak. "Everything's fine in here, ma'am. No problem! No problem at all!"

"I'm afraid there is a problem, Mr. Browder. Somebeast has gone and knocked out your friend Kurdyla. I fear there may be an attempt on your life before the night is over. Open the door, please."

Many moments passed before Browder responded. "Um, if somebeast's gonna try 'n' kill me, I'd better keep th' bally door locked, wot?"

"Well ... yes, but ... "

"Are you sure Kurdy's been drugged anyway? Mebbe he just jolly well went an' nodded off ... "

"He didn't just ... wait a minute! I never told you he was drugged, just that he'd been knocked out!"

"Um ... lucky guess?"

"Browder, what's going on in there? Open this door!"

"Everything's fine, marm! No trouble in here, I assure you!"

"Yes, we're just fine," a female voice put in, causing Sister Blanche to step back in surprise. "Now please go away and leave us alone!"

Blanche stood there in the night silence for several moments, unsure what she should do. Then, as one or two doors farther along the hall creaked open, their rooms' sleepy-eyed occupants roused from their slumbers by Blanche's shouting and knocking, she turned and ran to wake the Abbess.

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Vanessa, as Abbess, possessed a master skeleton key to every lock within Redwall. And even though Sister Blanche had stirred her from the depths of delicious dreams, Vanessa maintained the presence of mind to slip that key into her habit pocket as she shrugged into her robes and scurried after Blanche to see to this situation.

By the time she arrived on the scene, a gaggle of beasts crowded the corridor - a mix of longtime Abbeydwellers and the newly-arrived slaves who'd been given the spare beds on this floor. Granholm and Lekkas had gotten Kurdyla propped against the wall with his legs and tail splayed out in front of him, although the big otter remained dead to the world and snoozing sedately.

"Whoever took care of Kurdy sure knew what they were doing," the squirrel slave said. "Must've taken a hefty dose of knockout juice to put a beast his size to sleep. Glad they didn't overdo it and kill him."

Lekkas the mouse cast a vaguely accusing eye Vanessa's way. "I thought you gave your word nothing like this would happen, Abbess."

"So I did, and I am as alarmed by this as anybeast. Have any of you checked on Browder?'

"He says he's okay," Granholm replied, "but he won't open his door."

"Then let's get to the bottom of this." Fishing the master key out of her pocket, Vanessa padded up to the door in question and smacked it hard several times with the flat of her paw. "Browder! This is the Abbess! Open this door at once, or I'll open it for you!"

"Abbess?" came Browder's voice through the door. "You're up early this morn, wot? Hope it's not on my bally account. Don't want to be any bother ... "

"Too late for that. Who's in there with you?"

"Uh ... wot makes you think there's somebeast else in here?"

"This is ridiculous!" Vanessa muttered, and stuck her key into the keyhole. Before she could give it a turn, however, the door unlatched and swung inward. Granholm, Lekkas and a few of the other former slaves stood at Vanessa's shoulder, ready to rush to Browder's aid if he was in distress.

The player hare stood in the half-opened doorway, his nightshirt quite rumpled. He glanced from one face to another in the lamplit gloom, an expression of mild surprise on his features. "Wot's all th' fuss, wot? I'm perfectly fine, as you can all jolly well see. Now, can a chap get some blessed shuteye 'round here?"

"Let me in, Browder," Vanessa ordered. "Sister Blanche heard somebeast else in there with you, unless your acting talents include doing convincing female voices."

"I'm sure he can, talented thespian that he is," came a voice that was most definitely female, "but in this case Sister Blanche was not hearing things." A paw appeared from behind the door and pulled it open the rest of the way to reveal a second beast standing behind Browder. "Nobeast here but us hares!"

"Mizagelle?" Vanessa gaped. "What are you doing here?" Actually, the Abbess knew perfectly well what the young archerhare must be doing here, but in that case Browder should not have been standing beside her now, still alive. This scene meeting her eyes made no sense.

The young female's fur was slicked down beneath her tunic, and Mizagelle smelled faintly of rosewater, as if she's just bathed.

"Making plans, as it happens, Abbess," she replied. "Tomorrow is Nameday, am I right?"

"Um ... yes," Vanessa confirmed, confused by the sudden change in subject.

"And there are to be wedding ceremonies as part of the festivities?"

"You know there are, Mizagelle."

"Well, then - " Mizagelle put her paw around Browder's waist and pulled him closer to her in a display of affection too spontaneous to possibly be feigned, " - now there's to be another."

Vanessa and the others stood staring in disbelief at the two hares. Browder simply smiled sheepishly and shrugged, not protesting in the least as Mizagelle hugged him to her.

00000000000

"Wha ... wha ... wha ... _WOT_ are you thinkin' of, Miz?" the Colonel practically shouted.

With dawn still at least an hour away, Vanessa had escorted Mizagelle down to the Long Patrol tunnels and filled in Clewiston on all that had happened, at least as far as she understood it. After that, the Abbess left the young hare with her commander, content to let the two of them get it all sorted out. Fur knew, Vanessa was at a loss over the whole situation.

Upon hearing Vanessa's tale, Clewiston had awakened Mizagelle's mother Melanie and her sister Givadon, as well as Traveller and Lieutenant Gallatin. Now the six of them were gathered in the Colonel's private quarters, and passions were running high.

"I went up there with every intention of killing him," Mizagelle admitted. "There was no doubt in my mind at all that that's wot I would do. I'd planned it perfectly, down to the last detail - put that otter senseless, then slip in an' out before anybeast was th' wiser. Prob'ly could've gotten clean away with it, too, not that I was even thinkin' in those terms. But once I had Browder at my mercy, I ... just couldn't do it. My paw was on my dagger, an' he was there helpless below me, and I just couldn't kill him. Not like that - not in cold blood. So, we started talking. And the more we talked, the more I realized that Browder was no evil beast, no blackhearted servant of wickedness. He's ... just Browder. He doesn't deserve death, and the idea of somebeast slaying him for something he was hoodwinked into doing for Urthblood, when he might well have been misled by that bloody badger as badly as anybeast ... well, that notion rankled me more than just about any notion ever has before. My heart went out to him ... and I have given it to him completely."

"You've gone daft, Sis!" Givadon exploded. "You must not've been th' only beast chuckin' potions around tonight! That fink's bewitched you!"

"You can't marry Browder, Miz," added Melanie. "You know you can't."

"Just let anybeast try to stop me!"

"Don't tempt me, m' gel!" Clewiston exploded. "You just confessed yourself you meant t' kill Browder when you went up there - a direct violation of orders, from me an' th' Abbess both! For that alone I oughtta flippin' well confine you to quarters for th' rest o' the blinkin' season! Then there's the business about you drugging that otter - th' Abbess still doesn't know wot t' do with you about that! When that brute wakes up, in addition to a whopper of a headache he'll prob'ly also have an urge to tear you from limb to limb! Might hafta keep you down here for your own bally protection."

Mizagelle remained utterly unfazed by the reprimands and recriminations flying at her from all directions. "He doesn't even have a clue who gave him that drug. And he won't find out unless somebeast sees fit t' tell him. But it doesn't matter anyway - he wouldn't lift a paw against me if Browder tells him not to. Browder's my protection against that otter ... and I'm his protection against any others of the Long Patrol who get it into their heads to do to Browder wot I almost did. Once he's my husband, any attack on him will be an attack on me. And any hare who thinks to harm him will have me to contend with!"

"And me as well," Clewiston growled, "since I gave the Abbess my word as an officer that no hare of mine would hurt him. You've caused me so many problems tonight, Mizzy, I don't know where to start!"

"It's simple, Colonel," Mizagelle stated matter-of-factly. "In a few hours I'll be married to Browder, and that will more than make up for any murderous thoughts I might have harbored against him before I knew better. It will also give Browder the Long Patrol's mantle of protection, thereby assuring that the Abbess's guarantee of sanctuary will not be violated. That will solve everything."

"And how does Browder feel about this ... arrangement?" Traveller asked.

"I think he's as surprised by this turn of events as I am," Mizagelle said. "I don't suppose he ever saw himself as th' marrying kind - must've figured he'd die a bachelor hare. But he knows he might never get out of Mossflower alive if he didn't agree to this, so he was quick to accept betrothal."

"Accept it?" Givadon gasped. "Y' mean, this was your blinkin' idea?"

"O' course. Browder's too much of a milquetoast to ever be so daring. And he's not especially experienced in romantic matters, for all that he may play the sophisticated and worldly player. So, I took the initiative, don'tcha know."

"But, do you love him?"

All eyes went to Traveller, then back to Mizagelle as they awaited her answer. Not even the Colonel interfered with the old scout hare's line of questioning.

"I ... I don't think I'd be doing this if I didn't, sir."

"And if you're wrong?"

"It's my life, sir. My decision to make. And I've made it. I'm willing to commit to this ... for better or for worse."

Traveller regarded the young hare wistfully. "I don't know wot you two, um, talked about that made you see his side o' things so much. I can accept that you got t' know 'im well enuff t' decide he's a decent beast - an opinion I'll not weigh in on here - an' mebbe even came t' feel sympathy for his plight, an' admiration for how he helped those slaves. But that's no grounds for marryin' th' sod, Mizzy. Marriage is for keeps. Can you honestly see yourself spendin' th' rest o' your life with Browder? Can you see startin' a family with 'im?"

"Yes. Yes, I can."

Givadon threw up her paws. "I can't b'lieve wot I'm hearin'!"

"Mizagelle," Melanie said sternly, "you cannot wed that hare."

"Mel's right," Clewiston seconded. "It simply wouldn't do t' have that louse livin' here at Redwall - be a constant sore reminder of th' treachery that was perpetrated upon us. An' I'd be loathe t' see you hafta leave us 'cos you saw fit on a whim t' marry a beast who's not fit for polite society like we got here. It's a no-win choice either way."

"But, Colonel. You're the one who's been encouraging us to get married an' start families ... "

"Not to a scum-nosed, lyin'-tongued, back-stabbin', traitorous, treasonous, lily-livered coward like that! Why, when we have so many eligible bachelor hares here - fine, upstandin' Long Patrol males - would you settle on a louse an' a fink like Browder?'

"I can't fully explain wot happened, sir. But there was a connection between me and Browder tonight unlike anything I've ever experienced before ... almost like fate or destiny was at work. Like it was meant t' be. You know, most Redwallers believe the spirit of Martin the Warrior watches over this Abbey, an' makes his presence known from time t' time. Now, I'm not sayin' Martin was speakin' to me tonight, but something was goin' on, to make me go from wantin' Browder dead to wantin' him as a husband. I feel we're meant to be together."

"Wot hornswoggle 'n' balderdash did that shifty blighter feed you t' make you believe such tripe?" Clewiston demanded.

"You think he seduced me, Colonel? Give me some credit, sir. I am a trained hare of th' Long Patrol, after all!"

"For now, Mizzy ... for now."

An awkward silence settled over the room. Mizagelle finally broke it.

"When I went up to kill Browder, I knew I'd pay a price for my actions. Maybe gettin' kicked out of the Long Patrol an' banished from Redwall. But I was willing to face those consequences ... an' I still am. So do wot you have to, Colonel. But I'm stickin' to my longbow on this one."

"Mizzy, I don't want you marrying that ... that nothing of a hare." Melanie's voice was pleading now rather than authoritative, but no less motherly.

"Sorry, Mum, but we already are. Married, that is. The Abbess just has t' make it official." Mizagelle rose from her chair and strode purposefully toward the door. "Now that I've had my honeymoon, I have to go get ready for my wedding."

And then she was gone, the others staring after her in stunned and silent disbelief.

At length Givadon muttered, "Well, there goes my wedding day!"


	7. Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty-Six

If the previous day's weather had been appropriately dismal for Broyall's funeral, this new day dawned with a sky so splendidly blue, a sun so warmly bright and air so invigoratingly fresh that there was no question of holding the Nameday festivities indoors. By the time the sun fully cleared the leafbud-festooned treetops to the east, Vanessa decreed that this spring's celebration would take place out on the lawns and in the orchard under the full wash of the early season sunshine.

Hares and otters and other burly beasts muscled tables and benches out onto the Abbey grounds while the early-risers among the kitchen staff applied the final touches to the feast offerings, re-heating previously prepared dishes where required and whipping up the few new ones whose recipes demanded that they be made and served on the same day. Many of the Abbeybeasts who'd labored in the kitchens for most of the night slept well past sunrise, enjoying their well-deserved rest, but that still left plenty of paws at work to ensure that the food would all be ready by midday.

In the meantime, trays of bread and honey-glazed buns were set out in Great Hall for the other Redwallers to nibble on while they awaited the main event. After all, with the torrent of savory aromas streaming out of the kitchens, it would have been torture for anybeast to go without a bite the entire morning!

While all of this was going on, gossip over the previous night's happenings spread like wildfire throughout the Abbey, and speculation ran rampant.

"Did she really go up there to kill him?"

"Has that big otter woken up yet? Sister Aurelia said he might sleep straight through Nameday!"

"They're getting married, can you believe it? One moment she wants to put a blade in his heart, the next she ends up betrothed to him!"

"The Colonel must be having fits! Him and all the rest of the Long Patrols."

"The Abbess is so furious, I heard she might not allow the marriage!"

"Where would they live anyway? I can't picture them dwelling down in the warren with all the other hares ... "

"Mizagelle certainly learned her sleeping potion lore from the time she spent helping Aurelia up in the Infirmary. Unless she got that vixen to help her whip up something ... "

"A Long Patrol hare teaming up with one of Urthblood's foxes? I don't think so!"

"How old is Browder, anyway? Isn't he twice her age or something like that?"

"Heard tell they'd gotten so cozy that they didn't even want to open their door after Kurdyla had been discovered and half the Abbey was standing outside their room!"

"Shameless, I tell you! Carrying on like they were already married, right under this Abbey's roof!"

"Well, that's not too different from what Alexander and Lady Mina were doing last winter, before the Abbess put a stop to it ... "

"What could possibly have gotten into that young haremaid's head?"

"Wouldn't be surprised if the Colonel locks her in her room for the rest of this season!"

"Haven't you heard? She's up with Browder right now, going over their vows or something ... though she probably just wants to make sure none of the other hares tries to stop the marriage by killing him first!"

"Well, hopefully they'll at least have the decency not to go pawing at each other anymore before they're wed, and defile Redwall more than they already have!"

"Wonder how her fellow hares feel about sharing their wedding day with a beast they'd vowed to kill if they ever saw again?"

"Hey, maybe everything will work out all right. You never know. This is Redwall, after all."

"Pah! This might be Redwall, but don't be surprised if the Abbess kicks those two right out of the Abbey altogether! T'would serve them right, too!"

And so it went, until tongues and throats grew tired from talking about it. If nothing else, it gave the Abbeydwellers something to occupy themselves and help pass the time while waiting for the Nameday festivities to commence. For their own part, the hares who were out helping with the tables remained a tight-lipped bunch, refusing to engage in such banter with the other creatures of Redwall. They'd gone through their own round of gossip and speculation in the predawn hours, after Mizagelle had stormed out of her meeting with Clewiston and the others, but that had been left down in their tunnels at the Colonel's urging. They were the Long Patrol, after all, bound by stricter rules of discipline and conduct than their fellow Redwallers, so they would maintain their stiff upper lips and resist the temptation to be drawn into the discussions going on all around them.

And then, as if it had crept up on all of them while nobeast was watching, it was time ...

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The mellow boom-bong of the Matthias and Methuselah bells rolled out over the Abbey grounds, announcing to everybeast that the Nameday celebration was underway. Under the sure paws of Cyril and Cyrus, the twin bells tolled out not the standard festival signal, nor even the pattern traditionally reserved for weddings, but a special melody combining the two that had been devised especially for this occasion by Vanessa and the mouse brothers.

The tables had been arranged in an enormous half-circle around the spot where the brides and grooms would be united this day. The food was to be brought out after the triple - or perhaps now quadruple - marriage ceremony was concluded. Now the benches around those tables filled as hundreds of creatures streamed out of the Abbey into the sparkling noontide sunshine.

Smallert and Broggen were waiting for the bellringer siblings when they emerged from the bell tower, and the four of them sat together as had become their custom at Redwall feasts.

It might have seemed natural that the ferret Grayfoot and his retiring wife Judelka would join the weasel and stoat, seeking out the company of those most like themselves in the midst of so many woodlanders, but instead they stuck with Sergeant Fryc and his shrews, whom they'd accompanied down from the Northlands. The Guosim, with their honorary resident bankvole inventor Lorr, then made a point of sitting on the opposite end of the semicircle, having had quite enough of the brash Northerner shrews over the past half season. The vixen Mona, meanwhile, sat not with her travelling companions Grayfoot and Fryc but with her fellow foxes Tolar and Roxroy. The former slaves of the searats mingled amongst the other woodlanders in no particular order, eager to experience the famous open hospitality and friendliness of Redwall about which they'd heard so much. And Maura, naturally, presided over the Abbey children, who had a separate table all to themselves so as not to pester the adults and their guests too badly.

Of course, this was just the opening seating arrangement. As always at Nameday festivals, it was bound to be thrown to the winds as the day wore on, and as the partiers roamed and mingled among friends and family.

Owing to the unusually large number of creatures staying at the Abbey this spring, there really was no room to include the Sparra without making the gathering wholly unmanageable. However, Highwing and his brethren were not to be totally excluded from this day's events, for Vanessa had invited them to observe from the walltop, where dishes would be put out especially for the feathered folk. And while the birds' tastes generally ran toward insects and worms, many of them had over the seasons also developed a palate to appreciate the finer fare of Redwall. Candied chestnuts were an especial favorite, as were just about any breads and cheeses with seeds or nuts in them, and Vanessa saw to it that Friar Hugh provided plenty of these for their Sparra friends.

With the tables and ramparts fully packed and the Abbess standing at the ready to officiate the weddings, it was time for the brides and grooms to make their appearance.

The grooms came out first - Alexander, in the presence of Elmwood and some of his other closest comrades from the Mossflower Patrol, dressed in his royal blue and green-trimmed wedding tunic, followed by the hares Baxley and Gallatin, appointed in their splendidly fashioned dress jackets. The three groombeasts, to the tune of much applause and unabashed shouts of encouragement, strode across the lawns to stand before Vanessa.

Of Browder there was no sign.

"Um, we seem to be a groom short," the Abbess observed.

"No loss far as I'm concerned," Colonel Clewiston said from beside Gallatin. "Be a happy day for us hares if he never shows his scut t'all. Maybe he got a whompin' big case o' cold footpaws at th' last moment. One can always hope ... "

"Will somebeast please go see what's keeping Browder?" Vanessa requested. "I don't want to start this until everybeast is here."

"Oh, please don't hold things up on his account," Clewiston implored.

As one of the sisters of the order scurried off to check on the tardy hare, the three brides emerged from the Abbey - Florissant in a flowing dress of peach taffeta with white trim, and Givadon in a similar long dress made of pale green chiffon with gold lace. But it was Lady Mina, garbed in a much less elegant fashion, who stood out as the true jewel of the procession. She'd had Sister Orellana make her a tunic that was a companion piece to Alexander's. The powder blue with gold trim of her garment complemented the darker blue and green of her mate's, while her hemline dropped lower than his, halfway to the knee, so that it almost looked like a hybrid between a tunic and a short dress. When she took her place at Alexander's side, they truly looked like the Lord and Lady of the forestlands that they were.

Givadon looked around her in surprise as she stood at Baxley's side. "Where's Mizzy?"

"Yeah," added Florissant, "an' where's Browder?"

"We're trying to ascertain that right now," said Vanessa. "We haven't been so busy out here that we wouldn't have noticed them leaving by one of the wallgates, so we can safely assume they haven't run off together. We'll hold off on getting started here - sorry, Colonel - until their whereabouts have been established, and I know whether I'll be performing three weddings today or four. But I will say, you are a splendid-looking group who stands before me now! All these tunics and dresses are magnificent! Sister Orellana outdid herself this time."

"Maybe Mizzy finally came to her bally senses!" Givadon muttered hopefully.

"No such luck, Givvy," Florissant said, glancing back toward the Abbey.

Browder and Mizagelle strolled out of the door, down the steps and across the grass toward everybeast else, arm in arm and smiling contentedly. Behind them walked Kurdyla, finally returned to his senses and looking none the worse for his enforced period of unconsciousness.

While the other hares glowered wordlessly at Browder, Vanessa said, "We were all beginning to wonder whether you two might have changed your minds about getting married after all."

"Of course not, Abbess," Mizagelle assured her. "I'm more serious about this than I've ever been about anything in my life."

"Hadta wait for Kurdy t' come 'round, don'tcha know," Browder added airily. "Couldn't go an' tie th' bally knot without my best otter, wot?"

Vanessa looked to the hulking waterbeast, who was actually sporting a cheerful smile. "How are you feeling, Kurdyla?"

"Like somebeast went an' whomped me over th' head with me own rudder, a bit." He ruffled Mizagelle's headfur between her ears. "I owe this lass a big thanks fer puttin' them knockout drops in my soup last night. Mebbe it was that snooze, or mebbe t'was that clunk on my headbone I took when I fell outta my chair, but I finally feel like I'm gettin' back to me ol' self. Been kinda scatterbrained ever since that weasel cave - kinda like my mind was always half asleep, even when I was awake."

"So, no hard feelings toward Mizagelle?" Vanessa asked.

"Naw. Why would there be?" Kurdyla gave Browder a friendly pound on the shoulder that made the hare shudder under the impact. "This's yer moment, Browder, so lemme get outta yer light. Have a nice weddin'!" The otter sauntered off toward the tables to find himself a seat.

Vanessa looked the two latecomers up and down; Browder still wore the travel-stained tunic in which he'd arrived at Redwall, while Mizagelle was adorned in nothing more than her everyday Long Patrol garb. "Um, if you'd like, I can delay this ceremony while you go put on something a little finer for the occasion ... "

Mizagelle resolutely took Browder's paw in her own. "I'm marrying Browder, not his clothes. We've kept everybeast waiting long enough, Abbess. Let's get on with it, an' seize th' bally moment, wot?"

"Mizagelle," Melanie implored softly from behind her as she and Browder took their places in the wedding line before Vanessa, "don't do this. Please don't do it."

"Sorry, Mum. Meant t' be, an' all that. Disown me if you must, but I'm goin' through with this."

Melanie sighed sadly and nodded for the Abbess to proceed.

The four couples stood abreast before Vanessa: Givadon and Baxley and Florissant and Gallatin to the right of the two squirrels, Mizagelle and Browder to their left. The Abbess moved from one pair to the next, reciting for each a short poem she'd composed especially for them, after which they exchanged their vows and Vanessa declared them husband and wife.

When she reached Browder and Mizagelle, however, she paused, brow furrowed. "I'm afraid I don't have any special verse prepared for the two of you. You did spring your engagement upon us rather suddenly, you know. Do you have anything to say to each other, or shall I just go ahead and pronounce you married?"

"One moment, Abbess ... " Mizagelle took Browder's paw in both of hers. "All my young life, I've been trained to be a fearless fighter, and to reserve my love and compassion only for my fellow Long Patrol. When I came to live at Redwall last autumn, I had to learn to think of everybeast at the Abbey as part of my family. I also had to adopt Redwall's ways as my own. I think this is what enabled me to see the decency in a creature I thought an enemy. I am no longer blinded by hatred, and that truly is the greatest gift Redwall could have given me."

She turned to her intended. "Browder, you have my heart now and for always. I thank wotever fates brought us to this moment. When I went to you last night I could only think of ending your life. Now I can think only of spending a long life with you, my beloved."

Browder seemed almost at a loss for words after this profession of devotion, but at last he said, "It takes a mighty big heart t' forgive, an' I must be th' luckiest hare alive to've won yours, Mizzy. I'm not any kind o' courageous beast, seasons know I'm not, but I swear I'd lay down my worthless life for you. An' that's ... well, that's really all I can jolly well say, wot?"

"And it's quite enough for me," Mizagelle said, and leaned over to kiss Browder deeply.

"A-_hem_," Vanessa said loudly. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, you two. Plenty of time for that later. Now then ... Mizagelle, do you hereby take Browder as your husband from this day forth, to love as you love no other creature, to be the best and most caring wife to him that you can be?"

"I do."

"And do you, Browder, hereby take Mizagelle for your wife for all the remaining seasons that you two walk in this world together, to give her the unwavering devotion that being a husband demands, to never let your affections stray from her, and to support her throughout any struggles and misfortunes that might find you?'

"I do, ma'am."

"Very well. I now declare you to be married in the eyes of Redwall, and all of Mossflower and the lands beyond. Wherever you may go in the world, may your love be an unshakeable bond and strength for both of you. _Now_, you may kiss."

And so they did. Even Clewiston and Melanie were moved by the obvious tenderness Browder and Mizagelle displayed toward each other. "Can't believe it's come to this," the Colonel muttered, but his tone was far less disapproving than it might have been.

Vanessa turned from the eight newlyweds to address everybeast else. "This concludes the wedding portion of our festivities ... " She waited while the applause, cheers and whistles died down. "I know Friar Hugh hasn't started to bring out the food yet, but since I have everybeast's attention, I might as well go ahead and give the naming of this season."

More applause and cheers washed over her, but this round cut off even more abruptly than before; most of the assembled Abbeybeasts and guests still had no idea what name Vanessa had chosen for this spring, and they were as eager to hear it as they were to commence the feast.

Vanessa stepped into the center of the semicircle of tables, where she could command the full gathering's attention. Paws clasped serenely in front of her, she recited in a clear, loud voice:

"Winter is past and the woodlands awake

From snow-frosted ground and ice-crusted lake

The season of slumber has now given way

To the rebirth of life and long mild days

Spring has returned to Mossflower once more

Bringing many new friends to our door

The brothers of Machus build their own stronghold

While shrews march the lands in numbers untold

Battles fierce along the shores to our west

Send more beasts our way to be welcomed as guests

Squirrel, mouse, hedgehog, otter and hare

Has fate delivered into our care

Longtime friends take their wedding vows today

This day is so special in so many ways

So let everybeast here celebrate as one

The Spring of Many Wanderers has begun!"

This time the pawclaps and cheers went on and on, an outpouring of appreciation for yet another of Vanessa's perfectly-chosen season names. Winokur and Brother Geoff traded a knowing wink and a smile between them.

The Abbess didn't even try to make herself heard over the happy tumult. Raising her paw in the air, she twirled it in a signal for the food to start being brought out ... which only elicited more exuberant shouts of joy. Naturally.

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It took so long to wheel, cart and carry all the dishes out to the waiting feasters that some of the kitchen helpers didn't even taste the fruits of their labors until after some of the other Abbeybeasts had eaten their fill. The moles' deeper'n'ever pies were hauled out at one go aboard the cart which was usually pulled only by Maura. A separate cart trip was needed to convey all the breads and dried fruit and vegetable salads, while the otters wrestled out their cauldron-sized crock of shrimp and hotroot soup under muscle power alone. But it was the cascade of desserts and sweets which was the true star of this Nameday. A veritable convoy of carts was needed to roll out all the cakes, pies, puddings, flans, sweetbreads and biscuits that had been produced for the festive occasion. Quince pie, bilberry truffles, carrot cake, flans of honey and almond and peach and pear, sweetmeadow custard with crystallized raspberries, blueberry muffins, cherry and apple scones, almond wafers topped with sweet pink cream, hazelnut and acorn fritters, woodland nutcrunch, wild plum crumble, raisin and cinnamon bread, plum pudding with candied chestnuts, and ten different kinds of fruitcake, plain or iced or cream-topped ... it was almost too much to take in.

But taken in it was, with so many hares and all of the Guosim on paw to do their part. The former slaves positively boggled at such plenty, as did the trio of foxes; even though Tolar had dwelt at Redwall for part of the previous summer, this was his first time at the Abbey during a feast day. Even longtime residents, however, were impressed and surprised by the scope of what was offered that afternoon, especially since there had been no fresh fruits or vegetables from the winter-desolate gardens and bare orchard to support this colossal culinary effort. All had been produced using the winter stores of what had been harvested the summer and fall before. Vanessa had said she'd wanted enough food to satisfy anybeast who might show up, even all of Urthblood's beasts at the quarry, and it certainly seemed as if Friar Hugh had obeyed her wishes.

Of course, none of the others from the quarry besides Tolar and Roxroy _had_ shown up ... which meant more for everybeast there!

The Sparra stayed mainly to the walltop, not the least bit regretful of being excluded from the chaos down on the lawns. This allowed the birds to keep a watch on the surrounding countryside so that the Abbeybeasts below could properly concentrate on their feasting.

A special table was set up in the center of all the others for the newlyweds. They might not have had the honor of getting the season named for them, but they would receive a position of honor at these festivities nonetheless.

Mina and Mizagelle were mindful to seat Browder between them, so that he would be spared direct contact with any of the other Long Patrol hares. Given their attitude toward him, it would not have been surprising for Browder to have taken a few "accidental" elbows to the ribs or stomach, a fork to the paw or a bowl of scalding soup clumsily spilled into his lap.

As the feast progressed and the partiers began to circulate beyond their initial seating arrangement, Mizagelle wrangled her new husband into taking her over to meet some of the escaped slaves he'd escorted to Redwall from the coastlands. She'd heard the tales of Browder's heroism and selfless dedication in assisting these wayward refugees, but had yet to speak personally with any of them other than Kurdyla, who'd come awake a short time before the weddings. Now she wanted to hear about her groom's finest hour firstpaw from the creatures who'd been there to see it.

Since the slaves had settled themselves amongst Redwallers in no particular order, it happened that some of them were seated near Long Patrol hares, who also sat scattered among the other woodlanders. Many scowls came from these quarters whenever Browder approached, and more than one hare made a show of rising from their own seats to go mingle with other creatures they plainly held to be more worthy of their company. But with Mizagelle constantly at his side, and with so many other beasts nearby who held a high opinion of Browder, none of the hares offered anything worse than bad grace.

"He's a hero, plain 'n' simple," the otter Wharff told Mizagelle as he pounded Browder's shoulder. "Snatched us clean outta th' jaws o' death, 'ee did. Why, I might well be naught more'n bones right now if this courageous flopears hadn't come back fer us!"

Browder shrugged off this praise. "All I did was fall flat smack on my bally bobtail an' sit there gettin' poked by those primitives 'til Klystra came along an' fooled 'em all inta thinkin' he was some kind o' great owl. I'd be bones now m'self if that featherbag hadn't pulled all our paws outta th' fire."

Mizagelle cozied up alongside Browder. "Well, I'm glad he did. I'd hate t' have just your bones to snuggle up to at night."

Browder smiled in embarrassment and blushed to his eartips. The mute hare Saticoy, sitting on Wharff's other paw, rolled his eyes and gave a disgusted grunt as he rose to get away from the enemy hare who'd married into the Long Patrol.

"But you were th' first in," Wharff went on, "with no way o' knowin' what kinda numbers you'd be facin'. That takes some real spine, matey. You c'n claim yore a coward all you want, but we who were there know better."

"Yes, we do," seconded Clovis, who sat to Mizagelle's other side. "I don't know what exactly made you change your mind about Browder, but you've chosen a fine beast to make your husband. Why, if I were a hare instead of a mouse, I might've set my sights on him for myself."

"Then I'm glad you're not, missy!" Mizagelle laughed, drawing Browder closer to her once more. "I'm glad you're not!"

Browder smirked and blushed some more.


	8. Chapter 37

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Early in the afternoon's festivities, Montybank stacked two short benches one atop the other, then positioned a small keg of strawberry fizz on the upper bench, held in place by chocks so it wouldn't roll off. His activities had soon drawn a small crowd of curious onlookers.

"Whayya doin' that, Mista Monty?" young Droge asked.

"You jus' wait 'n' see, me spikey li'l bucko!" The otter Skipper retrieved a mug from the nearest table and returned to his odd construct. "Now, normally, this 'ere cordial has just a wee bit o' fizzle to it - barely enuff t' tickle a mousebabe's whiskers! But here's a way t' get a hearty head o' foam on yore drink that a beast can really sink its muzzle inta!"

The two trestles elevated the cask of cordial high above the ground. Monty lined up his mug with the spigot and opened the nozzle. Once the fizzy fruit drink began to flow, he lowered his mug until it was almost touching the grass, causing the cordial to cascade in a long descent before splashing into the vessel. A frothy cap of fine bubbles formed, rising up and spilling over the sides of the mug.

The otter twisted the spigot shut and proudly upheld his foamy beverage for all to see. "Now _there_'s a right proper head fit fer a thirstybeast! Here y' go, Drogey lad! Stick yore nose inta that!"

The 'hogchild took the proffered mug and did as bidden, with much obvious delight. Droge didn't know which he liked more, the feathery-prickly taste of the strawberry foam against his tongue or the splendid mess of the sweet lather running down the sides of the cup.

"Lemme, lemme!" Droge's shrewfriend Pirkko begged, holding out his own cup to Montybank as he danced side-to-side with excitement.

"Shore thing, Log-a-Tyke!" Monty happily obliged, presenting the Guosim chieftain's son with an overly-fizzed drink of his own.

The commotion attracted the attention of the healer vixen Mona, who detached herself from the company of her two fellow foxes and drifted over to observe, standing behind the ranks of delighted youngsters. "What are you doing, good sir otter?" she inquired.

"Aw, you don't hafta call me sir, ma'am," Monty grinned. "I only make me crew call me that! I were just showin' these liddle cullies an old drinkin' trick t' liven up their party fun! Here, I'll show ya!" He produced another cup with a flourish, repeated the flamboyant procedure, and held the foamy offering out to her. "Mind yore whiskers, marm - might tickle a bit!"

Mona stared at the mug as if mortified, making no move to take it.

Monty regarded her, baffled by her apparent rebuke. "Now, I know it's a wee messy, ma'am ... "

The vixen took an unsteady step backward, her unblinking stare fastened upon the mug. All the color had drained from her face; she looked almost deathly.

"Ma'am, are you alright?" Monty asked, concerned. All the children had stopped laughing and roughhousing and now stood staring at Mona too.

"It's ... " She shook her head as if throwing off something unpleasant. "It reminds me of something ... I witnessed once ... please excuse me ... " On shaky legs, Mona hastily retreated to her table.

"Huh. You'd think she'd seen a ghost, y' would." Monty gave the cordial intended for the vixen to Cuffy the dormouse instead; the youth took it with great enthusiasm.

The otter chief glanced around him. "Hey," he told his fellow otters, "let's see if'n we can't get us a couple more o' these benches over here an' get a cask of October ale up on top of 'em! Then we'll show everybeast here what real drinkin's about!"

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Once all the children had received their cupfuls of foam-capped strawberry fizz, Broggen was the first on line among the grownups to sample the sweet, bubbly concoction. The affable stoat wasted no time in dipping his snout into the pink head, coating his muzzle and whiskertips with a rosy moustache.

Sergeant Fryc of the Northland shrews wandered over. "Hey, whatcha drinkin' there, longneck?"

"Oh, um, just some strawberry cordial, Sarge. 'ere, try some - it's quite tasty!"

Fryc took a sip from Broggen's own mug, then pulled a distasteful face. "Blaugh! This stuff ain't fit fer a shrewbabe, much less a strappin' big stoat like yerself! Pour out that youngbeasts' brew, an' lemme fill yer cup with something that'll put fur on yer chest an' frazzle yer tail!" He started toward the elevated cask of October ale.

"Oh no," Broggen protested, holding up a paw. "I daresn't."

"Eh? Why not?'

"Doesn't agree with me, Sarge."

"Don't agree? What th' frack's that s'posed t' mean?"

"I don't hold me spirits very well," Broggen explained, or tried to. "I don't know when t' stop, an' it gets me all outta sorts."

"Aw, don't go frettin' over suchlike, friend, there's beasts aplenty 'ere today who'll keep ya from overindulgin'. It's a once-a-season celebration ... so go on an' celebrate!"

Broggen stood staring down at the shrew. It was the first time since his arrival at Redwall that anybeast had tried to force any alcoholic beverage upon him. Of course, Fryc was a new visitor here, and clearly did not know Broggen's personal history. Every longtime Abbey resident was familiar with the story of how the stoat had once terrorized some goodbeasts while on a drunken rampage, and had narrowly escaped a punishment of death at the paws of Lord Urthblood. Fryc, being a mere sergeant, probably hadn't even entered Urthblood's service until well after those events had taken place; the shrew was nobeast Broggen recognized from his time in the Northlands, so it was possible their paths had never crossed until recent days.

"I am celebratin', Sarge," Broggen insisted. "In me own fashion. You drink what you want, an' I'll keep to what works fer me. Cheers!" He lifted his cup and drained it of the strawberry fizz with a loud slurp.

"Huh. Pansy of a stoat, drinkin' that sweet stuff," Fryc muttered to himself as he made his way to the October ale. "T'ain't natural, a burly beast like 'im quaffin' liquid candy. This's s'posed t' be a festival, an' that ain't no way t' be festive! Hey, otters! Gimme somma that there ale!"

Montybank had left Brydon and Rumter in charge of the October ale. The two young otters were happy to have the job of dispensing the beverage, since nearly every adult beast would be by eventually to partake of Redwall's famous ale, and this would allow Brydon and Rumter to get in their full measure of socializing without ever having to leave this spot.

Brydon ran a frothy tankard of ale from the tap and presented it to Sergeant Fryc. The shrew scowled at the tall head, then blew at it, scattering flecks of foam all over the front of Brydon's tunic.

"Hey, watch it there, matey!" Brydon forced a laugh as he wiped a paw over his garment, although inwardly he was somewhat miffed by Fryc's behavior. "I'm a waterdog, not a tailwallopin' dishrag!"

Fryc looked askance at his mug after he'd taken a long draught of the October ale. "Hey, this stuff tastes like ginger ale! My momma's milk was sterner stuff than this!"

"Abbess said t' put out a weaker batch," Rumter explained. "Didn't want anybeast gettin' tipsy today!"

"Don'tcha got anything with a little more kick to it?" Fryc inquired. "Me 'n' me shrews're accustomed to some real drink, if y' take my meanin' ... "

The two otters traded glances. "Well, Balla's got brandy an' rum an' wine an' such down in the cellars," Brydon mused. "Reckon we could ask that ol' spikemarm whether she could trot out some o' that ... "

"Couldja?" the shrew encouraged them. "We'd much 'preciate it."

"But th' Abbess said t' keep th' spirits light," Rumter reminded his companion. "Th' children an' all ... "

Fryc pointed to the cask of ale atop the benches. "Just put it up there, an' no youngbeast'll be able t' reach it. Fur, I can't even reach it m'self!"

Rumter stroked his chin. "I s'pose that'd work. Lemme go ask Balla what she c'n do fer ya ... "

While Rumter bustled off to find the hedgehog cellarkeeper, Fryc held out his still mostly-full mug of ale to Brydon and pointed back over his shoulder to the strawberry cordial. "Hey, tell ya what - wouldja mind toppin' off my brew with somma that sweet juice?"

Brydon made a face and stuck out his tongue as he took the vessel from the shrew. "Mix October ale with strawberry fizz?"

"Yeah - might make fer a good bubbly punch. Worth a try, huh?"

Brydon shrugged. "Well, okay ... Yore th' guest here, so whatever's yer pleasure ... " He and Fryc went over to the cordial keg. The Sergeant's tankard was still about three-quarters full of the mild ale. Brydon filled it the rest of the way to the top, holding the mug close to the spigot so that the cordial fizz wouldn't all foam up over the edge right away.

"There y' go," Brydon grinned, eagerly awaiting Fryc's reaction upon tasting the questionable concoction. To his surprise, the shrew started walking away. "Hey, where're y' goin'?"

"Ain't fer me," Fryc called back. "It's fer a friend!"

Broggen had by this time returned to his seat with Cyril, Cyrus and Smallert. Fryc sauntered up alongside the stoat and slammed his full tankard down on the table alongside Broggen's empty one. "Drained yer mug already? Good thing I broughtcha more then!"

Broggen ganced from Fryc to the drink and back again. "Why, that was mighty kind o' ya, Sarge. Thanks!"

"Don't mention it." Fryc stood back, a knowing smile on his face as he watched Broggen lift the drink to his lips and quaff deeply from it.

Broggen abruptly put down the tankard after three swallows. "Hey! There's spirits in this fizz!"

"Y' don't say? Wonder how that coulda happened?" Fryc tipped his paw to his brow and started off to rejoin his shrews. "Enjoy!"

Broggen sat glowering at the mug of ale-cordial mixture as if it were a personal enemy, a flurry of emotions flitting across his face. The mouse brothers Cyril and Cyrus regarded their stoat friend with concern; in all the time they'd known Broggen they'd never seen him like this. Smallert, who had a better idea than the two mice as to what was going on with Broggen, reached out to remove the offending beverage. "Here, Broggs, lemme get this away from ya an' fetch ya some more o' th' pure fizz ... "

"No. Wait." Broggen's paw shot out, grasping Smallert by the wrist before the weasel could touch the tankard. "It tasted like there was just a little bit o' ale in that drink. It's gotta be mostly cordial." He picked it up and held it under his nose, sniffing at it, then took another healthy swallow.

"Now, Broggs," Smallert cautioned, "y' know y' ain't s'posed t' be drinkin'. We all 'member what happened up north ... "

"Aw, that t'were a whole root cellar o' potent blackberry brandy that landed me in hot water then." Broggen helped himself to another gulp. "This don't begin t' compare."

"Well ... I guess," Smallert conceded dubiously, noting that Broggen had already polished off half the drink. "Long as you stop at one, I guess it's okay ... "

"Sure it's okay," Broggen said, licking his lips. "I mean, what could it hurt?"

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The Abbey children, fueled by repeated servings of strawberry fizz, were engaged in a high-speed game of tag through the orchard.

Mona sat alone on a solitary stump near the orchard's edge, afternoon sun sheening off her red fur as she watched the youngsters racing to and fro in their tireless play. The vixen had wandered away from the main festival shortly after her episode of strangeness with Montybank at the cordial barrel, and showed no indication of rejoining the celebration.

Abbot Arlyn ambled over to where she rested. Along with most of the other Abbey leaders, the old mouse had heard about Mona's bizarre reaction to the sight of the fizzy beverage, and at Vanessa's behest set out to see if he could discover the explanation or help the pretty fox in any way.

She looked up at his approach. "Mind if I share your seat?" Arlyn asked. "These ancient legs of mine aren't much good for standing at long stretches."

"Oh, yes. Of course, Abbot." Mona scooted to one side of the treestump; there was plenty of room for a second beast to sit there.

Arlyn settled down and joined the pensive vixen in watching the children at play. "Are you enjoying our Nameday festivities?"

"It is wonderful, Abbot. The weddings, the Abbess's naming of the season, not to mention more food and drink than I've ever seen in one place ... Truly, I never imagined such a refuge of happiness was to be found anywhere in the lands."

"I'm glad to hear that. I was a little worried, after that moment I heard you had back at the drink casks."

Mona shot Arlyn a glance, then quickly looked away again, clearly reluctant to discuss the matter. The retired Abbot decided not to press the subject, and the two of them sat in silence for some moments.

Out in the orchard, Droge had been tagged "it." But the young hedgehog was more concerned with having fun than winning, and had taken to pursuing his playmates by hurling himself this way and that along the ground rolled up into a spiky ball. His friends laughed so hard at his antics that they almost forgot to run, and several were very nearly tagged - or rather, pricked - to be the next chaser.

"Full of energy, aren't they?" Arlyn commented. "A beast can get tired just watching them!"

"Indeed." Mona gave a soft sigh. "But they're all going to die someday."

Arlyn nearly fell off his side of the stump at this unexpected statement. He studied the side of her face, but her placid gaze remained on the cavorting children.

"Everything that lives must someday die," he said at last. "That is nature's way. But those young ones have many, many seasons ahead of them, or so I hope, and many joys and blessings too, before they will have to think of such things. And, if you don't mind my saying, Mona, you yourself are too young to have such thoughts bouncing around inside your skull. They might be more appropriate to somebeast like me, who nears the end of his seasons, but not for you."

Now she did turn his way. "Doesn't that bother you? That your life is near its end?"

"Not in the least, my child. I have lived my full measure of seasons, and they have been happy ones, filled with the companionship of all my friends here at Redwall. I have been blessed with good health, and doubly blessed to have been born into one of the most peaceful eras of Mossflower's history. Never in my life has war or strife touched the forestlands around our fair Abbey. This has made my tenure as Abbot so much easier than it could have been, and I can only hope that Vanessa's term at Redwall's helm may be as uneventful as mine was, in spite of Lord Urthblood's dire warnings of a crisis to come. Serving our community here has been the most profoundly rewarding duty you can imagine, and I was extraordinarily fortunate to have had that privilege. So, to answer your question, no, I am neither saddened nor fearful nor resentful that my life is drawing near its end. I will embrace my passage from this world when it comes, be it tomorrow or ten seasons from now."

Mona heaved a deeper sigh. "When I first arrived at Redwall, you all asked me how I became a healer. I always danced around the question, putting you off with responses that weren't answers at all. That's because the incidents surrounding my full awakening in that field are as unpleasant for me to think upon as it would be for you good folk to hear."

Sympathy crossed Arlyn's face. "I'm sorry. We didn't know ... "

"How could you have? But the truth is that when I was quite young - not even an adult yet - I saw my older sister killed."

Arlyn rested a paw atop hers. Mona flinched at the first contact, as if unaccustomed to receiving compassion from anybeast, then accepted the gesture. "You have my sympathies," he told her.

"She met her end at the claws of searats," the vixen went on, "and I very nearly did too," she added with a shudder. "She said many unkind things to me in our seasons together - I think the burden of being responsible for me was one she would rather have done without - but never once did she beat me, or send me to sleep hungry or cold if she could help it. Deep down, I do believe she cared for me. I would have been lost without her. Fortunately, Lord Urthblood's troops rescued me, and that badger immediately recognized in me an innate healers' ability. So, he educated me more thoroughly in medical lore ... and that is how I came to be what I am today."

"It sounds to me," said Arlyn, "like fate has been both very cruel and very kind to you."

"Ever since then, death has fascinated me. When I encounter a deadbeast - and believe me, I have seen plenty, following Lord Urthblood around the Northlands on his campaigns - I will study it in as many ways as I can, testing, probing ... it is the passage from life to death, especially in a sudden or violent manner, that captivates me so. At what point does death occur? What physical damage can a creature sustain before it is injured beyond all hope or chance of repair? What knowledge or lore, still to be discovered, might allow us to save beasts who now would surely die from their illness or injuries? How do our bodies work? These are the mysteries that hold me in their thrall. Their exploration is my life now."

Arlyn sat contemplating Mona's words for some moments. Even though abundant sunshine lit the grounds around them in a shimmering golden glow, it seemed to the retired Abbot as if a dark shroud had fallen over this particular treestump. There was nothing overtly threatening or sinister about Mona - indeed, sitting there alongside the old mouse she seemed almost to exude an innocent purity in her delicate beauty - but nevertheless her statements unsettled him.

"These deadbeasts you ... study. Do you ever, ah, cut them open in your examinations?"

"A study of the entire body - inside and out - is necessary to complete understanding, Abbot."

"Ah. And, you wanted to examine our recently-deceased hare Broyall ... " Arlyn left it an unspoken question.

"Abbot, I would never have defiled a beloved member of your community. I merely wanted to have a look at him. I've never had a chance for a close look at a hare ... "

"And that opportunity shall have to wait for another day," Arlyn said stiffly. "Too bad you weren't at Salamandastron last summer - you would have had plenty of subjects for your studies. In fact, I'm surprised Lord Urthblood didn't bring you along, if your healing skills are so formidable. Your talents surely would have come in useful after the battle."

"I would have liked to have been there, Abbot, for any number of reasons. But Lord Urthblood must have known there might be fierce fighting, and I am no soldierbeast. I might have been lost in that conflict."

"I suppose ... "

"Do you know anything of the healing arts, Abbot?"

"Not as much as our current Abbess, who was once the keeper of our Infirmary before attaining her present position. I did my share of shifts in the Infirmary in my younger days, but I was never in charge of it as Vanessa was."

"Still, you must know enough of such things to appreciate my view. If you could learn the secrets of life and death enough to ensure that virtually nobeast delivered into your care would ever die, wouldn't you at least try?"

"Nobeast can cheat death, my child."

"I beg to differ, Abbot. As you say, everybeast must die someday ... but why should that day arrive one moment sooner than it absolutely has to?"

"That is fine - up to a point. As long as one does not unnaturally resist what is meant to be."

"And who determines what is natural and what is not?"

"Why, nature does, of course. It always has."

"But, are we not part of nature ourselves? And if we say it is to be some other way than it has always been ... "

"Then it might become a case of nature turned against itself - and that can never be good."

Mona was silent a moment, then nodded. It was not a nod of agreement, but one that said she saw no use in continuing the conversation. "Anyway, Abbot, you can now understand why I acted so strangely earlier. I apologize if I put a damper on your holiday."

"It's quite all right, Mona. No harm done. But, I still don't understand why you found the sight of our strawberry fizz so disconcerting. How exactly did your sister die?"

"I will not darken your feast day anymore than I already have, Abbot. That unpleasantry has no place even in this morbid conversation. Perhaps someday I will tell you. But not today." She rose from the treestump. "Thank you for coming over to rescue me from my own gloom. Now let me go take advantage of the rest of this lovely celebration you've provided for us."


	9. Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Lorr the bankvole wanted to learn as much as he could about this explosive new weapon of Tratton's. And since the former slaves were the ones who'd been closest to its use, he sought them out before he'd helped himself to more than a dozen nibbles of the Nameday fare.

"You'd really be best off asking our falcon friend Klystra about that," Granholm the squirrel told Lorr. "He was the one who got to see it in use up close when he flew off to the coast to help Captain Matowick. From what he told us afterwards, I'm surprised any of Urthblood's beasts got out of that scrape alive. But fully half of 'em did, by all accounts, all the way back to Salamandastron."

The bankvole inventor was crestfallen. "If only I'd known of these events when Klystra was here, I would have asked him about it, yes indeed, I would have."

"Maybe he'll return one day this season," Granholm suggested hopefully. "But we were on the other side of the mountains when all that was going on. All we heard was distant booms, like far-off thunder."

"Still, those concussions must have been awesome indeed, yes, absolutely tremendous, for you to have heard them at all on the opposite side of a mountain range, yes?"

"Yes, well, I'm just as glad we weren't any closer to the action than that," said Granholm.

"But Granny, ain't you fergettin' somethin'?" Wharff the otter interjected. "What about when th' _Scorpiontail_ went kabloowie back by th' dock?"

"We don't know if that was caused by the same thing, Wharff," the squirrel reminded his otter comrade.

"Pfaw!" Wharff waved a paw. "What else could it've been, I ask yer? You saw it yoreself, Granny - that blast picked that big ol' warship clear up outta th' water, an' turned her stern t' toothpicks, along with a good stretch o' the pier. Sometimes I think my ears're still ringin' from that thunderclap! Now, I seen my share o' oil fires an' such, an' I can tell you there ain't no fire-makin' liquid that packs a bang like that. Th' _Scorpiontail_ must've had a hold full o' th' same stuff that second ship was usin' to harass Cap'n Matowick, an' somehow it got set off ... "

"Yes, a likely scenario, yes, yes," Lorr agreed, fascinated by Wharff's account. "In my own experiments over the seasons, you see, I've come across a number of arcane powders that will burn up in a bright flash if they are exposed to a flame. King Tratton must have found a way to produce large quantities of some combination of these substances for weapons purposes. I would be most interested to know what formula he's using, indeed I would, yes." Lorr turned to Browder, who still sat with Mizagelle amidst a knot of the former slaves. "I say, my good Browder, you were at this scene too, were you not? What can you tell me about how this material combusted?"

"Me? I was cowered inside a cave tryin' t' keep warm while this whole flappin' rigamarole was unfoldin'. Heard that big boom, right 'nuff, but I didn't jolly well see it. An' that suits this hare just fine. If I live t' be a hundred seasons old an' never find m'self that close to battle again, I'll be perfectly happy. Um, no slight to my blushin' bride here, fine upstandin' fightin' beast that she is ..." Browder patted Mizagelle lovingly on the shoulder. "But Mizzy's wot she is, an' I'm wot I am, an' a soldierbeast I'm jolly well not!"

"It's all right, Browder," Mizagelle cooed, planting a peck on his cheek, "nobeast's perfect!"

The feasters around the two hares snickered and giggled.

Browder stood. "If you will all excuse my good self for a moment," he announced, "my stomach is well-stocked with all the cheese and vegetable pies it desires. Time for this hare t' sample some o' these widely-varied desserts before they all disappear, wot? A little sweetness after th' main meal helps th' digestion, don'tcha know."

"Speakin' of sweets, my sweet - " Mizagelle passed Browder her own plate, " - be a sweetie and see if you can rustle me up another portion of that sweet carrot flan. Or a slice of that honeyglazed carrot cake if the flan's all flown."

"My spankin' pleasure t' serve you, m'dear. Be right back."

As Browder started off for the other tables, Mizagelle called after him, "We'll leave th' spankin's for tonight!"

The male hare blushed slightly and hastened away.

With a fair amount of poking his head between seated diners, Browder had soon surveyed all the dessert fare that remained on his side of the table arc. He secured a hefty slice of the carrot cake for Mizagelle, then added portions of pear flan, plum crumble, sweetmeadow custard and apple tarts to his own plate (the carrot flan had indeed flown, leaving only a bare serving platter - hardly surprising, given Redwall's current hare population).

And those hares did their best to ignore or shun Browder as he undertook his dessert expedition, turning their backs to him as he approached or in some cases getting up and walking away to be gone from him. The player hare did his best to disregard their rudeness toward him; after all, he was sure to receive much more of the same in the seasons to come, if he continued to live at the Abbey.

As he returned to Mizagelle, a plate balanced in either paw, he came across a hare standing in his path who neither turned away nor fled from him. Glancing up, he found himself looking into Melanie's face. "Oh, um ... hullo there. Enjoyin' this lipsmackin' beanfest, ma'am?"

She sternly regarded the two plates in his paws. "Sure you've got enough there?" she asked sourly.

"Oh, uh, this one's for Mizzy, don'tcha know." Browder lifted the carrot cake.

Melanie gave a despondent sigh, an island of melancholy in the happy festivities going on all around them. "So, you're my son-in-law now."

"Um, yes, that would be true. Funny how, ah, things work out sometimes, wot?"

"Funny's not the word I'd use," she snapped, but her voice held more disappointment and resignation than malice. "Wot ever could've made her want to marry you? Out of all th' hares in Redwall - out of all th' bloody hares in th' whole flippin' _world_ - why you?"

"It was her idea, ma'am ... or should I call you 'mum?'"

"Please don't. It'll take me several seasons to come anywhere near bein' comfortable with that notion."

"Ah, yes, I can see how it would. But ma'am and marm just don't feel right anymore, considerin' ... well, considerin'."

"Yes, I know," she agreed frostily. "If you feel th' absolute need to speak to me at all, call me Mel."

"Fair 'nuff. A fine name for a fine hare like - "

Melanie cut him off. "You said it was Mizagelle's idea? Th' two of you gettin' married?'

"Well, it sure t'weren't my idea! Not that I wasn't quick t' go along with it, once Mizzy'd, ah ... convinced me. But I've never exactly been a romantic sorta chap, or pictured m'self as a family hare. I certainly never came t' Redwall lookin' t' get hitched! Matter o' fact, I was plannin' on gettin' clean away from here as far an' as fast as I could once Nameday was over, an' not darken your bally doorstep a moment longer'n I jolly well had to."

"Then, what happened?"

Browder shrugged, setting aquiver the flan and custard on his plate. "I'm still workin' on that m'self, ma'am ... uh, Mel. All I know is, by th' time we'd finished, ah, talkin', marriage sounded like th' best bally idea I'd ever heard. An' now that it's done, it feels a thousand times better'n I ever thought it would."

"So, you didn't seduce her with your player's wiles?"

"Wiles, me? May I remind you, she's th' one who came to me! If any hare was doin' some seducin' last night, it wasn't me!"

Melanie's eyes narrowed at Browder. "Have a care there - that's my daughter we're talkin' 'bout!"

"Oh, I'll have a care, all right. That's my wife we're talkin' 'bout too now. An' I'll deal a swift kick to anybeast who impugns her honor!"

It was hard to say who was the more surprised by this statement, Melanie or Browder himself. "I almost believe you mean that," she said to him.

"Yah. So do I, if y' can believe it. But about last night. I can't account for it any other way 'cept by sayin' it was nature doin' wot comes naturally. Two hares, thrown t'gether in a life 'n' death situation ... maybe it was just meant to be, even if it's th' last thing anybeast thought they wanted, or expected, wot?'

"Meant to be, huh? That's wot Mizzy said this morn, when th' Colonel an' I tried t' talk some sense into her. Maybe there's something of fate or destiny to this after all."

"I half-believe that m'self, Mel. After wot I've been through th' last few days, it makes as much bally sense t' me as anything."

"Then ... then I guess there's nothing left to say except, welcome to th' family." Melanie slowly extended her paw to Browder.

"Um ... " Burdened as he was, Browder lacked any free paw with which to shake. He ended up giving one plate to her, which Melanie transferred to her other paw so she'd still have her right one free. The whole procedure was as awkward as everything else about their new relationship.

At last they traded a tentative pawshake. Melanie looked Browder in the eye with an unblinking gaze. "I ask only one thing. Fur knows, I don't expect very much of you. But I ask this: Don't hurt Mizagelle in her heart. Wotever may come, don't you hurt my daughter."

Browder broke their clasp to place his paw over his heart. "You heard wot I said at our wedding today. I meant every bally word of it. If you dismiss every other word that's ever passed these lips, believe me when I say that I would lay down my life for Mizzy. I know that's not much, considerin' wot my life's worth, but it's th' best I can do. An' I swear by that."

"I'll hold you to that ... not that I ever expect you t' come within seven seasons of any situation where you'd be likely t' lay down your life for anybeast. I'm gonna tolerate you, Browder - for Mizzy's sake, not yours. It's th' least I can do for her. Don't ever think for a moment that just because I might act civil toward you that I still don't despise you."

"Um ... thank you ... I think." Browder glanced at the carrot cake that Melanie still held. "Like I was sayin', I was just takin' that t' Mizzy. An' now that you've decided t' tolerate me bein' married to her, don'tcha think Mizzy needs t' hear that from you more'n I do?"

Melanie mulled this over, then gave a nod. "Walk with me ... "

00000000000

Broggen was singing off-key.

The stoat and a small congregation of otters had taken over part of one table, and their carefree caterwauling had driven away as many creatures as it had attracted. It took strong ears to withstand their half-sung, half-shouted shanties and river songs, but many of the shrews, squirrels, hares and former slaves were up for the challenge, and before long an audience of clapping, hooting beasts stood gathered around the boisterous, impromptu choir.

Among the onlookers were Smallert, Cyril and Cyrus. The trio was not there for the enjoyment of the music, such as it was, and they looked on with a great deal more gravity than most of the others. And they had good reason for doing so.

Shortly after finishing the ale-cordial punch Sergeant Fryc had slipped him, Broggen had sauntered off to fetch himself more of the strawberry fizz, but returned instead with two tankards of pure October ale, one of which was half-drained before he'd even reached their table. Smallert and the two mouse brothers had cautioned their stoat friend at that point about overindulging in spirits, but Broggen good-naturedly waved off their concerns, pointing out that this barrel of ale was so mild that it scarcely qualified as spirits at all. A couple of mugs was hardly cause for concern. It was Nameday, after all, and he was as entitled to enjoy himself as anybeast.

Except that Broggen didn't stop at just a couple of mugs. In short order he'd made three more trips to the ale keg, and downed half a dozen tall tankards. Rumter and Brydon started to josh that the stoat was trying to empty the barrel all by himself. Broggen, clearly inebriated by this time, had laughed along with their joke, then helped himself to a refill.

It wasn't long afterward that Broggen graduated from October ale to the plum brandy Balla had rolled out at the request of the Northland shrews. Now, as he sat singing with the otters he was mixing his drinks: three small glasses of brandy lined up alongside three mugs of ale on the table before him. More than one feastgoer had cast peculiar stares in his direction at this drinking style, but it was Nameday, after all.

Sister Aurelia stamped over to the table of revellers, paws clamped firmly over her ears. She waited until they were between songs, then marched through the crowd right up to the overly-exuberant vocalists.

"Keep it down over here!" she ordered crossly. "Your out-of-tune wailing is carrying across the entire Abbey, from the east gate to the west wall! Nobeast can enjoy themselves with all this racket!"

Montybank, the ringleader of the chorus, glanced around at the audience. "Gee, Sister," he said innocently, "seems t' me a lotta folks're enjoyin' our liddle songfest 'ere. You must be talkin' to th' wrong beasts!"

"Just keep it down," the healer mouse reiterated. "Your so-called tunemaking is enough to curdle greensap milk! And whose idea was it to put the strawberry cordial up so high? Half the creatures here can't reach it, and those that can end up with a foaming mess!"

"Aw, I were jus' tryin' t' make it extra fizzy," the otter Skipper protested. "Fer th' young 'uns."

"Yes, well, all of our young ones are now coming down with tummy aches from racing around the orchard playing tag after drinking your extra-fizzy cordial."

"Well, they ought not to've been racin' 'bout after drinkin' extra-fizzy fizz. Now you'll just hafta go give 'em all some o' yore infamous tummy fizzicks!"

"Ouch! Her fizzicks're nearly as nasty as she is!" Broggen sniggered.

Aurelia's irate gaze locked onto the stoat. "You'll need a good physic yourself the way you've been celebrating." Her eyes dropped to the table before Broggen. "Is that ... are you mixing ale and brandy?"

He looked at her, his own eyes focusing in and out slightly. "Hey, look, lads, it's th' mean ol' mouse who goes 'round whompin' innocent stoats with rollin' pins! That ain't verra nice, ish it?"

Sister Aurelia leaned forward far enough so that she could catch a whiff of Broggen's breath. "You're drunk!" she accused.

"Naw I ain't. Jusht a li'l tipsy ... " Broggen smiled a vacant smile at her, then downed one of the brandy shots in one swallow.

"You're a disgrace to this Abbey!" Aurelia berated him. "First you ruin my flan with your shedding, and now you go making a spectacle of yourself in front of everybeast! You ought to be ashamed!"

Broggen pointedly turned his back on her. "Aw, go 'way, hag."

Aurelia returned her gaze to Monty. "And just whose idea was it to trot out brandy? The Abbess wanted only mild ale, precisely so that nothing like this - " she nodded toward the stoat, " - would happen."

"T'was a request from Sergeant Fryc," Montybank explained. "Our guests wanted somethin' with a liddle more oomph to it."

"I cleared it with the Abbess," Balla the cellarkeeper put in from the front of the crowd. "She said t'was alright, long as we set it up where none o' th' children could reach it."

"Looks to me like at least one child did reach it ... " The Infirmary Keeper shot an acid glare Broggen's way.

Sister Orellana hurried over to the scene then. "Aurelia! Aurelia! Padgett the mole was just sick all over the mulberry bush!"

The healer mouse rolled her eyes skyward. "This is the part of festival days I always dread!" She raced off after the seamstress to tend to the distressed molechild.

Broggen monitored Aurelia's retreat out of the corner of his eye. "Glad she's gone," he slurred to nobeast in particular. "She was shpoilin' my fun!"

"She's like that ev'ry feast day, you know that." Monty looked to the stoat's array of drinks. "Mayhap you'd best slow down there, tho', matey. Y' don't wanna end up drinkin' yoreself under th' table 'fore th' afternoon's half over, do ya?"

"Aw, 'm fine, y' ol' ruddertail," Broggen said. "I drunk twice as mush in th' Northlands shometimes. I ain't nowheres near my capasher - ... my capercity ... my limit." He hoisted his mug - the one closest to him, at any rate - and drank deeply, rivulets of ale dribbling down the corners of his mouth. "Let'sh have another song, mates!"

Monty thought twice about pursuing the matter of Broggen's drinking, and soon their group had launched into another rowdy ballad to the delight of their steadfast audience. Broggen was quite jolly about the whole thing, his malicious words toward Aurelia notwithstanding, and there was an entire Abbey full of goodbeasts to manage him if he became unruly ... although, the way he was going, Broggen would end up passed out on the lawns before he ever got to that point, harmlessly sleeping off his binge. If that was how he chose to celebrate this occasion, who was anybeast to naysay him? Everybeast was entitled to its own idea of fun.

And it was Nameday, after all.

00000000000

Soon nearly every youngbeast in Redwall sat lined up on the Abbey lawns in front of the orchard, moaning and clutching their stomachs. Sister Aurelia paced up and down before them like a drill sergeant assessing his latest batch of green recruits, taking stock of these casualties of the epic battle between youthful enthusiasm and too much strawberry fizz.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Aurelia shook her head. "I don't even have beds for so many patients at once."

Maura the badger mother stood alongside the healer mouse. "Well, we have to do something, 'relia. The dear little terrors are in such discomfort I can barely stand to watch them, poor things. Maybe we can send them up in shifts ... "

Aurelia shook her head. "Easier if I just bring a batch of my physic down to them, enough for everybeast. They don't look to be in much shape for climbing stairs anyway."

"I don't want you to have to go to any extra trouble ... "

"Too late for that, I'm afraid, Maura. This is going to be an awful pawful of work no matter how we do it."

"Can I lend you a paw up there?"

"No. I know my way around my Infirmary with my eyes closed. I'll be able to work faster alone. You just keep an eye on this sorry gang, and I'll be right back down as quickly as I can."

Aurelia shook her head again as she padded across the lawns for the Abbey. "Serves them right, behaving like a bunch of children!"


	10. Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Vanessa, Arlyn and Geoff settled down in a quiet spot between the pond and the orchard, far from the more rambunctious revellers. Many Redwallers and guests who desired to digest their meal in peace gathered around the three Abbey leaders to engage in pleasant conversation or just to sit in silence and enjoy the waning afternoon. Among the creatures joining them in this placid corner of the grounds were the foxes Mona, Tolar and Roxroy, Grayfoot and his wife Judelka, and any number of the brothers and sisters, Long Patrol hares and former slaves who preferred to distance themselves from the boisterous drinkers and carousers.

Their jaunty disharmonies carried across the lawns on the mild spring breeze, a faintly drifting reminder of the more exuberant side of Nameday. Abbot Arlyn, sprawled lazily in a canvas-strung frame that was part chair and part hammock, cocked his ear. "Is it just my old hearing, or has this suddenly become the most sedate festival in my memory?"

Vanessa laughed lightly. "It only seems that way, now that all the children have stopped running around laughing and screaming and chasing each other. They always get this way on Nameday ... although I think it's a bit worse this season, with all that fizzed-up cordial Monty was giving out."

Geoff nodded. "Yes, I just saw Sister Aurelia run into the Abbey. She didn't take any of the children with her - there they all are over there with Maura - so Aurelia must be bringing the medicine out to them."

"Don't see th' bally point o' that," chuckled Traveller, sitting on the grass alongside Vanessa and Geoff's log bench. "One good swallow o' her evil juice, an' they'll all need beds anyway!"

"At least they're suffering in silence," said Geoff, casting his gaze toward the loudbeasts across the way, "not like those inebriated, tone-deaf buffoons over there! I'm surprised all of today's newlyweds are still staying in the middle of that ruckus."

"Well, we did give them the central table of honor," Arlyn pointed out. "Maybe they feel they shouldn't abandon it ... "

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Vanessa smiled knowingly, pointing up toward the south walltop at what her two fellow mice had missed. "Alex and Mina are taking a nice leisurely stroll along the battlements ... and something tells me it's not just to say hello to all our Sparra friends up there!"

Traveller sighed as he watched Alex and Mina up on the ramparts. "At least you can bet those two lovebirds've got their minds on happier things. Bet they feel like they haven't a care in th' world."

"Why shouldn't they?" asked Arlyn. "They're married, it's Nameday, the lands are at peace - or at least Mossflower is, although it sounds like Urthblood has his paw full with Tratton - and they have the friendly fastness of Redwall to call their home for all the rest of their seasons if they choose. As do all the brides and grooms who were wed today."

"Yeah," Traveller muttered. "Even Browder."

The Abbess studied the old scout hare. "Do you think there'll be a problem with Browder living here alongside the Long Patrol?"

"I don't rightly know, Abbess. I s'pose, if you good folk could let 'im back into yer good graces, we can too."

"Browder was never actually banned from Redwall," Vanessa said, "in spite of our disdain for his actions of last summer. And when he showed up with all those slaves and their accounts of how he saved them, well, I couldn't very well deny him entry. And after what happened with Mizagelle last night, I was really left no choice but to go ahead and marry them."

"So, there'll be no punishment for wot Mizzy did last night?"

"I don't see what it would accomplish. As far as I'm concerned, all of that was settled the moment they took each other as husband and wife."

"Then again, I s'pose bein' wed to that fink fer th' rest of her days is punishment enuff, wot? Y' know, I had many days o' marchin' with Browder when we left Salamandastron for Redwall, an' I looked that hare up 'n' down seven ways t' someday, an' never once did I have him pegged as a traitorous spy. He fooled us all, an' it's not an easy thing t' hoodwink th' entire blinkin' Long Patrol! Especially when we were expectin' some kind o' underpawed, twisted treachery from Urthblood."

"And your point is?" prompted Vanessa.

Traveller's shoulders slumped. "Point is, I guess we've got no choice 'cept to accept Browder fer Mizzy's sake. We just lost Broyall, our oldest. Mizagelle's our baby, th' last hare born at Salamandastron before we buckled down 'gainst th' twin threats of Urthblood an' Tratton, an' we all love her like she's the daughter of each an' every one of us. If she's decided, for wotever reason, that she wants t' be Browder's wife, the rest of us'll just hafta learn to live with that. Her happiness matters more now than our wantin' revenge on Browder."

"Wise words," Arlyn commended the hare. "Revenge for its own sake never solved anything, or brought anybeast happiness or true satisfaction. Now, can you get your fellow Long Patrols to share your point of view?"

Traveller shrugged. "Guess that's up t' me an' the Colonel ... an' Melanie too," he said, unaware of the meeting between Browder and the hare mother a short time earlier. "If Mel can tolerate havin' him as her own son-in-law, I don't see that th' rest of us can have any cause for complaint. I'll have a talk with 'em later an' see wot we can hammer out."

"I appreciate your attitude, Traveller," Vanessa told him. "One thing I most certainly don't want is any bloodshed within this Abbey - and with the way some of your hares feel about Browder, I think that might still be a possibility. With the help of you and the Colonel, I hope that can be avoided."

"I'll do my level best on that score, Abbess. You can count on that."

While these older beasts conversed, across the gathering from them Winokur was chatting with the young swordfox Roxroy.

"So, you're only fifteen seasons old?" the novice otter asked the swordsbeast incredulously.

"Sixteen, actually," Roxroy corrected. "I was fifteen when I visited you in the middle of last winter. I was born in the early days of spring, so my birthday would have just passed."

"Wow! You're younger than I am! Only by a couple of seasons, but still ... They sure start your training early, don't they?"

"Not really. I mean, it takes a lifetime of practice to become as good as somebeast like Tolar or Andrus. I might never be that good, no matter how long I train. But I'm really not much different than you in that regard, am I?"

Winokur drew back in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Well, aren't you that otter who marched with Lord Urthblood to Salamandastron last summer to try to stop a war with Urthfist?"

"How do you know about that?" Winokur had not had any chance to talk with Roxroy during his brief visit over the winter, and the fox had not been present at the events he described.

"Oh, the elder foxes who were at the battle talk about you from time to time," Roxroy replied. "You made quite an impression on them. Uh, sorry 'bout your dad, by the way."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Anyway, they always say you knew how to handle your javelin like a pro, even back then. You must have been drilling since you were a pup."

"Not really. I mean, I have, but it was always more like play than soldiery or weapons training. That's just the otter way. Every otter knows how to wield a javelin from an early age."

"Well, there you go. You may wear the green habit of a Redwall novice, but you'd be able to shuck those robes at a moment's notice and step forward as a defender of this Abbey, because of who and what you are. I guess maybe Lord Urthblood's trying to do the same thing with my kind - get us started in training with our blades as youngsters so that swordplay becomes second nature to us, just like it is with you and your javelins."

"Yeah, but you're professional soldierbeasts. I'll never be in your league."

"Oh, I don't know. I bet you could probably beat me in a duel right now - your javelin against my blade."

"Well ... " Winokur considered. "You're still in training, and I do have a bit of a size advantage over you. Might be a pretty even match, actually ... "

"Wanna find out?" Roxroy asked innocently.

"What, you mean match weapons right here?"

"I see plenty of empty lawn that nobeast's using. Of course, if you'd rather not ... I don't want to talk you into anything you're not comfortable with ... "

Winokur mulled it over. Neither Machus nor any of his swordfox brigade had agreed to any sparring with the Abbey defenders the summer before, and when Winokur saw those foxes in action at Salamandastron, he'd understood why. Their skills were awesome, and any one of them could easily have bested him. But Roxroy was still a cadet, his skills still developing. This might be Winokur's only chance at testing his javelin against one of Urthblood's legendary swordfoxes, in a matchup that wouldn't be laughably one-sided against him. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

"You're on!" the young otter grinned.

Since he didn't have his own weapon at paw, Winokur borrowed one from a fellow otter, then joined Roxroy on a deserted stretch of lawn. Most of the others who'd been part of their group paused in their conversation and turned to watch the contest. Tolar said nothing to discourage Roxroy from this duel, so the cadet proceeded with his mentor's tacit approval.

Winokur stripped out of his habit, reverently folding the garment and presenting it to Geoff for safekeeping. In only his fur, the otter squared off against Roxroy. "Cooler afternoon than I'd realized," he joked.

The fox ran his gaze up and down his unclad opponent. Far from asking if Winokur wouldn't be more comfortable in a borrowed tunic or jerkin, Roxroy understood that an ungarbed fighter had an increased freedom of movement. He was almost tempted to unbutton and doff his own distinctive black uniform, but decorum even more than modesty stayed his paw. "Let's see what you've got, waterdog!" he grinned playfully. "And don't hold back - I want to see the best you've got!"

"Oh, don't worry, brushtail, you will!"

The pair set to it, steel against steel, and it quickly became apparent that they were indeed evenly matched. In spite of Roxroy's youth and smaller stature, the fox demonstrated an almost expert command of his blade. The two duellists started off tentatively, unsure of their own skill as compared to the other's, but as they grew more familiar and comfortable with one another, the speed and force of their swings, parries and thrusts increased. It was an impressive display to behold.

And just a little unnerving as well, at least for the Redwallers. Vanessa found her heart in her mouth as she watched. But barely had the duel gotten underway than her attention was called away by other matters.

"'scuse me, Abbess ... " Smallert approached, with Cyril and Cyrus at his side. "Broggs is givin' us a little trouble ... "

"Oh? What kind of trouble?"

"He's been drinkin' all afternoon, ma'am, an' he's startin' t' get a little ornery. Sayin' really rude things ... an' he's shoved a couple of beasts who've tried ta get 'im to stop drinkin'."

"Really? Well, we can't have that. Can't Monty and the otters and hares handle him?"

"We were all kinda countin' on Broggen passin' out an' solvin' that problem for us, but looks like that ain't gonna happen. He's already drunk enuff t' float a pirate ship, with no sign o' slowin' down."

"He's scaring us, Abbess," Cyrus said. "He's not ... not acting like Broggen. He's like somebeast we've never seen before."

"Sometimes beasts who have a problem with drinking get like that," Vanessa said soothingly, sensing the young mouse's unease. "But I agree that it's time for him to stop."

"Well, he ain't gonna stop on his own, ma'am," said Smallert, "an' he ain't fit company fer decent creatures in his state. Skipper thinks we should either take 'im outside th' wall or else haul him inside th' Abbey where nobeast else is. What should I tell 'im, marm?"

"Well, we can't have a drunk-out-of-his-mind stoat wandering the woods. Escort him indoors, please. And if he gives you any trouble ... well, there should be enough of you there to keep him from giving you trouble. If he gets too belligerent, you have my permission to lock him in a cellar room until he sleeps it off."

"Right." The one-eared weasel ran off to see to the situation, the mouse brothers at his heels.

"Trouble, Abbess?" asked Traveller, who'd been too intent on the duel between Winokur and Roxroy to hear what Smallert had had to say.

"Nothing serious. Just a little hiccup in our festivities. Our stouter friends will take care of it."

They all returned their attention to the fox and otter. By now Winokur and Roxroy had fully taken each other's measure and were clashing fast and furious. Time and time again they came within a hair's breadth of slashing or stabbing their counterpart. Their duel seemed too intense and perilous to be just a friendly contest. Vanessa's heart quickly returned to her mouth once more.

Traveller leaned over and whispered to her, "You were worried 'bout bloodshed in yer Abbey, ma'am? Well, I'm beginnin' t' think you'd better put a stop to this steelfest, or else that's exactly wot you might end up with."

"I tend to agree, Traveller. But the way they're going at it, I think it might be more dangerous to interrupt them than to just leave them be."

And so they watched, breathlessly.

Nobeast could have said how much time passed before a panicked voice intruded upon the scene. "Abbess! Abbess!"

Tolar gave a sharp whistle through his teeth and raised his paw. Instantly Roxroy disengaged from Winokur and stepped back, blade lowered; it ended as quickly, cleanly and simply as that.

Vanessa turned to Balla the hedgehog, who stood panting and red-faced before the Abbey leaders. "What is it, Balla?"

"Abbess, you gotta come quick! Something terrible's happened!"

00000000000

The dread stillness of the tableau that greeted Vanessa by the Abbey entrance belied the violence which had only just occurred there.

Hanchett and Smallert stood tensed over the sprawled and unmoving form of Broggen. Mere paces away lay the prostrate figure of Sister Aurelia, her head jammed against the bottom step and bent at an ungainly angle. A large pot of spilled medicine sat on the ground midway between Broggen and Aurelia. Both fallen beasts were deathly still.

Vanessa pushed to the front of the crowd that had gathered around the four creatures. "What happened here?" she demanded, staring at the healer mouse and the stoat.

"He pushed her," Smallert informed the Abbess. "She hit her head on the step."

"We were wranglin' this drunken brute indoors, t' get him away from everybeast else," Hanchett clarified, "just as Sister Aurelia was comin' out. Broggs stumbled full into her, makin' her spill that tonic she was carryin'. She got furious, started yellin' at him an' callin' him all kind of nasty names. Then he yelled back at her an' shoved her, hard."

"And Broggen?" Vanessa asked.

"We clobbered 'im," the hare answered. "To keep 'im from goin' after her anymore. He was in a right drunken rage."

Alex and Mina knelt over Aurelia, giving the healer mouse a cursory examination. Both squirrels looked up at Vanessa with grief-filled expressions. Alexander shook his head sadly. "You're more experienced in the healing arts than any of us, Nessa. See for yourself if anything's to be done for her."

Vanessa knelt and ran her experienced paws over her protege. Nowhere could she detect a pulse, nor was Aurelia breathing. It was as she'd feared upon her first glimpse of the scene. Reaching around to feel the back of Aurelia's head where it had impacted against the hard stone of the step's edge, Vanessa's paw came away bloodied.

Redwall had lost its Infirmary Keeper this day.

Eyes moist, Vanessa looked across to the perpetrator of this dark deed. "Is Broggen still alive?"

"Aye," Hanchett affirmed after a hasty check. "This one's skull's thick as ship's planking. Shame he's not th' one who took that fall. He's like t' wake up any moment. Wot should we do with 'im?"

"Slay th' blighter," came Clewiston's voice from the crowd. "He murdered a Redwaller."

"Belay that!" the Abbess called out sharply. "Broggen's a Redwaller too."

"With all due respect, Abbess," said Mina, "I tend to agree with the Colonel."

Vanessa turned to Hanchett and Smallert. "You two were here when this happened. Do you think it was an accident? Or do you think Broggen truly meant to kill Sister Aurelia?"

"Um ... can't rightly say, marm," the weasel answered, still clearly quite shaken by this tragedy.

"He was soused outta his gourd, ma'am," Hanchett added. "I'm thinkin' he didn't even know 'imself wot he meant t' do."

"Then it wasn't murder," Vanessa declared. "But we can't have Broggen coming awake and shoving anybeast else around. He hasn't had time to sleep off this binge, and that's what he needs now. Hanchett, Smallert, you both remember that cellar room where the two of you were detained last summer? Take Broggen down there and lock him inside. Lay him on his side in case he gets sick, so that he won't choke in his sleep. This stoat is not to be harmed further ... and that is an order!"

"Yes, ma'am." Neither of them were about to disobey a direct order from their Abbess, so they hauled up the unconscious stoat by his arms and legs and bore him into the Abbey.

Another creature shouldered its way through to the fore of the growing crowd. "Has somebeast been injured?" Mona the vixen gasped breathlessly.

Vanessa went to the healer fox, paws clasped in front of her, and nodded solemnly. "Sister Aurelia. A mortal wound, I am afraid."

"I must see her." Before anybeast could think to stop her, Mona pushed past the Abbess and bent over Aurelia, examining the fallen mouse. Confirming for herself that the healer mouse's heart and lungs were stilled, the vixen knitted her paws together and commenced a rapid series of quick compressions upon Aurelia's breastbone.

Vanessa looked on sadly. "She is gone, Mona ... "

"I will be the judge of that, Abbess." Mona tilted Aurelia's head back and began blowing into her mouth. "We have ... to get ... her heart ... beating ... again," she gasped between puffs, then moved down to resume the chest compressions, "and get her breathing too."

"I know what you are trying to do," Vanessa said. "I was Redwall's Infirmary Keeper before Aurelia, and these techniques of revival are not unknown to me. But the injury was to her head. Her heart and lungs will not respond to your ministrations without her brain to command them."

"I have saved beasts so injured before," Mona groaned, ceasing her heart massage and blowing into Aurelia's mouth once more. "I can ... save her ... I know ... I can!"

"Mona, please stop."

"No!"

Vanessa gave a paw signal to Montybank and Colonel Clewiston. "I am going to have Sister Aurelia put on a bed up in the Infirmary. You may continue to work on her up there, if you insist upon it. But I will not have you making a hysterical spectacle out here in front of everybeast ... in front of the children ... "

Over the vixen's protests, Monty and Clewiston reverently lifted Aurelia's body and carried her inside. Mona hovered at their side, determined to carry on her desperate measures upstairs.

Abbess Vanessa turned to regard the Abbeydwellers and guests gathered about her. The disbelieving newlyweds Alex and Mina, Gallatin and Florissant, Baxley and Givadon ... yes, and Browder and Mizagelle too. The shocked faces of the former slaves, stunned that such a thing could have happened at the Abbey they'd braved such hardships to reach. The grim expressions of the Guosim shrews, who probably would have voted along with Mina and Clewiston for Broggen's death. The tear-stained cheeks of Cyril and Cyrus, who'd seen their weasel friend batter down their stoat friend after Broggen had stopped acting like himself and committed this unthinkable deed. The flushed faces of Winokur and Roxroy, fresh from their duelling exertions, with the taciturn visage of Tolar looking over the younger fox's shoulder. The aggrieved gazes of Balla and the otters Brydon and Rumter, who had brought out the spirits which had lead to this tragedy, and stood by as Broggen had grown more and more inebriated. Monty's otters and Alexander's squirrels and the hares of the Long Patrol, many of whom had indulged the stoat's drunkenness longer than they perhaps should have. Sergeant Fryc, who would not meet her gaze. Abbot Arlyn, who seemed to have aged ten seasons since he'd been sitting in his hammock-chair a lifetime ago that afternoon, and Brother Geoff, who was no doubt searching his memories for any other recorded feast day that might have known such misfortune. Highwing, who'd flown down from the walltop at the first sign of trouble. And Maura, who'd gathered all the Abbey children about her to comfort them as best she could, their spirits now as upset as their bellies.

But of all these creatures, it was Captain Grayfoot's spouse Judelka - the quiet ferretwife who hadn't uttered a dozen statements since her arrival at Redwall - who broke the expectant silence first.

"Are all your Namedays like this?"


	11. Chapter 40

Chapter Forty

For the first time in living memory, a Nameday celebration came to an end while the sun still brightened the sky.

The remains of the food and drink sat untouched upon the tables, for what beast could think of eating at a time like this? Indeed, most of the feastgoers who'd already had their fill found themselves with bad cases of indigestion, their meals sitting as heavily in their stomachs as this day's tragedy sat upon their spirits. There would be no more festive merrymaking this Nameday.

While most of the Redwallers and their guests returned to their seats at the tables, wordlessly dwelling upon what had happened or talking to their neighbors in subdued, disbelieving whispers, Vanessa paid a visit to the cellars to make sure Broggen was in no danger.

She found the stoat snoring and dead to the world on the floor of his makeshift cell. Vanessa couldn't tell whether his handlers might have treated him roughly as they'd bustled him down here, but from the way Broggen was crudely sprawled she guessed they hadn't spared him any courtesy.

While Hanchett and Smallert looked on, Vanessa applied poultices to the lumps on the back of Broggen's head. The stuporous stoat stirred slightly and mumbled incoherently, but did not awaken. Her ministrations complete, she waited out in the corridor while the hare and weasel made sure Broggen was safely locked in his cellar room.

"Those are some nice bumps on his scalp," she said to them. "Just how many times did you two hit him?"

"He didn't go down easy, Abbess," Hanchett responded. "Like I said before - thick skull."

"An' he were so stewed," Smallert added, "he wasn't feelin' our blows right aways. We hadta stop 'im 'fore he went after Sister 'relia anymore, or turned on somebeast else. We didn't know then that he'd ... that she was ... well, dead."

"So you both jumped on him at once?"

"I'd say it was a race t' see which one o' us could bring him down first, ma'am," said Hanchett. "When an unruly beast like that starts pushin' 'round creatures half his size, it's time t' swat first an' ask questions later, wot?"

"Yeah," Smallert put in, "Broggs is me best mate here at th' Abbey, but what 'ee did up there's beyond forgivin'. I'd show 'im no mercy, marm, be he my pal or no. Hope you keep that in mind when ye're decidin' what's to be done with 'im."

Vanessa regarded the one-eared weasel with a half-smile. "Strong words from a creature who's still under a death sentence from Lord Urthblood if you step outside our walls, for slaying one of your fellow soldiers and seriously wounding a Redwaller."

Smallert hung his head. "Yessum," he muttered in a very small voice.

"I don't mean to harp on your past misdeeds, Smallert, but you must remember that we here at Redwall are very forgiving. You yourself are living proof of that, I need hardly remind you. You are not the only beast at the Abbey who considers Broggen a friend - many of us have come to see him as a part of our family. What happened today is as much a tragedy for him as for anybeast."

"Ye're bein' a lot bigger toward 'im than I could ever be," said Smallert.

"That's part of being Abbess," Vanessa told him.

"Then that murderin' sod's right lucky it wasn't your head he went an' smashed against those steps," Hanchett growled. "With all due respect, ma'am, a beast proves itself through its actions, an' today that stoat proved 'imself a killer. Broggs might not've been a bad sort for a vermin an' a soldierbeast of Urthblood's, but he's gotta pay fer wot 'ee's done."

"We'll wait until he wakes up before we decide anything like that. Right now he's in no state to answer charges of this magnitude."

"Wot's t' answer?" Hanchett burst out, a tone of exasperation creeping into his voice. "We all saw him kill Sister Aurelia! Only question now is wot 'is punishment's gonna be."

"Exactly," Vanessa emphasized with a sharp nod. "The punishment must always fit the crime, or else it is not justice, but merely vengeance. The Broggen who did this deed is not the same beast who has dwelt among us since last autumn. If he was not responsible for his own actions, then we must take that into account."

"Ma'am, I hope you're not gonna let 'im blame his drinkin' fer this!" the hare protested. "That's an excuse a scoundrel would use, an' only a fool would swallow it!"

"We all knew Broggen's history," Vanessa said sternly. "His drunken ways nearly cost him his life once before, and he lost his best friend as a result of precisely this kind of trouble, and has acted as nothing but a perfect gentlebeast since he came to live with us. He becomes a different creature when he drinks, and I don't think it's anything he can help. He's always made an effort to avoid spirits at our previous celebrations, knowing what might happen. So what was different this time?"

"Dunno," Hanchett shrugged.

"How did Broggen get to drinking today when he never has before?"

"Think it were an accident, marm," Smallert volunteered. "Somebeast put a drink down in front o' Broggs an' he sipped at it, not knowin' it had spirits in it. Once it got inta him, he couldn't stop 'imself, I reckon."

Smallert remembered exactly which beast it had been who'd presented that spiked punch to Broggen, but held his tongue on that score. Sergeant Fryc was a guest of Redwall, and Smallert didn't want to get the shrew in trouble if he didn't have to. After all, it could have been an accident, couldn't it?

"Well, no matter how he got started," Vanessa pressed on, "he didn't get so inebriated after just a drink or two. Surely those around him saw how drunk he was getting. I was over on the other end of the Abbey grounds. Why didn't somebeast step in to stop him before the point where he could cause harm?"

Hanchett didn't even try to defend himself, dropping his gaze away from hers. Smallert offered, "Um, in all fairness to all them hares an' otters an' squirrels an' shrews an' 'hogs, marm, Broggs didn't turn nasty 'til right at th' very last. 'Fore that, 'ee was actin' all jovial 'n' carefree, laughin' an' singin' up a storm. Actin' like th' life o' the party, 'ee were."

The Abbess sighed. "This is as much my fault as anybeast's. I never should have given Balla permission to bring out brandy and wine. If we'd stuck with mild ale, this never would have happened, even if Broggen had downed an entire barrel by himself."

"D' you want us t' stay here an' stand watch over him, ma'am?" Hanchett asked.

Vanessa studied the hare and weasel before her. After the loss of Lord Urthfist at Salamandastron, Hanchett had grown grim and distant from most other creatures, moreso than any of the other Long Patrols. And yet, of all the residents of the Abbey, it was Smallert - a weasel and a former soldier of Urthblood's army - who shared one of the closest bonds with the taciturn hare. Perhaps it was the time they'd shared manacled together the previous summer which had left them no alternative but to get to know each other. It was debatable whether Hanchett truly had a single friend at Redwall outside of his longtime Long Patrol comrades, but Smallert was one beast whose company he often tolerated. It was strange that a vermin-hating fighting hare would seek the companionship of a weasel, but no stranger than any number of other things which had happened in Redwall and Mossflower over the past few seasons.

"Please do," Vanessa assented. "I'm not worried about him causing further trouble, but somebeast should be here when he awakes. Notify me when he does - I'll want to speak with him, as soon as he's coherent."

"Aye, ma'am."

"Perhaps I'll send some of the others down here to relieve you. But now I must go up and see to Sister Aurelia."

00000000000

As she topped the stairs and stepped into the second-floor corridor where both her private quarters and the Infirmary were located, Vanessa saw several of Sister Aurelia's regular helpers milling about at the far end of the hallway outside the sickbay door. Curious, the Abbess started toward them. But, passing her study, she noticed that the door was open and heard voices from within. Diverting her pawsteps from the Infirmary, Vanessa turned and entered her chambers.

"Ah, Vanessa," old Arlyn greeted her from the cushioned recesses of a highbacked chair. "We figured you'd make your way up here eventually." Colonel Clewiston and Montybank leaned against Vanessa's desk opposite the retired Abbot. The two defenders straightened to attention upon her entrance.

"What's going on down there?" Vanessa inclined her head in the direction of the Infirmary as she moved to her habitual place behind her desk.

"That bossy brushtail ordered us out as soon as we got poor Aurelia set down on a bed," Clewiston reported. "I'm afraid there's no life left in that mouse, but don't try talkin' sense to that vixen!"

"Yes, she does seem determined, doesn't she?" said Vanessa. "And you two aren't the only ones Mona's banished from the Infirmary, apparently. I just saw a number of Sister Aurelia's assistants waiting out in the hall down there. Mona must be in there alone."

Arlyn gave the young Abbess an imploring gaze. "Vanessa, do you think there might be any hope for Aurelia at all? I mean, Machus was able to save Cyrus last summer after the rest of us had given up all hope ... and Mona's supposed to be even more highly skilled than Machus was ... "

"That's what I was on my way to find out, but in all truthfulness I can't see how, Arlyn. Cyrus never stopped breathing or lost his pulse at any time during that emergency. And even Machus was given a lot of help while he was struggling to save Cyrus. If you ask me, Aurelia was dead the instant her head hit that step, and that's not the kind of injury that can be healed by any means I know of. I fear Mona is deluding herself if she thinks she can bring Aurelia back from beyond the brink she has already passed. But if that fox knows something I don't, I will be only too happy to lend her my paw, just as Aurelia and I did for Machus."

Arlyn pursed his lips, wondering if he should voice the concern that was on his mind. "Maybe Mona shouldn't be left alone with Aurelia," he said at last.

"Why is that, Arlyn?" Vanessa asked, alerted to something in his tone.

"Well, it's just that Mona and I had a rather curious conversation this afternoon ... " He proceeded to tell them all about the macabre revelations the vixen had shared with him in the orchard.

Clewiston's eyes widened in horror. "You don't mean t' say that red-furred butcher might be down there right now, choppin' Sister Aurelia to bits t' see wot makes her tick?"

"She said she'd never do such a thing to a Redwaller ... At least, I think that's what she said ... " Arlyn shook his head. "It's probably nothing ... "

The Colonel started toward the door. "Somethin' or nothin', Abbot, this isn't the kind of thing we can take any bally chances about, wot? We've gotta get down there!"

"Hold on a moment, Colonel," Vanessa said, moving back out from behind her desk again. "I'll handle this myself. Remember, the Infirmary used to be my domain before I became Abbess. Monty, while I'm seeing to Mona, could you please send a couple of your otters down to help Hanchett and Smallert look after Broggen? No offense, Colonel, but I think that grim hare would put his javelin through Broggen if he even imagines that stoat gives him half an excuse. And the way Smallert's feeling toward Broggen right now, I don't think he'd lift a paw to stop it. I'd like to have some beasts with cooler heads on the scene to oversee things."

"I'll see to it, Nessa ... um, what's that I hear?"

They all fell silent, heads and ears cocked. From the hallway beyond came the distant sound of clattering and crashing, together with scattered alarmed voices.

Moments later, one of the sisters appeared at the study's door. "Oh, Abbess, there you are, thank goodness! Come quick - that vixen is throwing a fit!"

00000000000

Vanessa insisted on entering the Infirmary alone while the others waited in the corridor outside.

Mona sat at the tiny desk in the far back corner of the room, tear-stained face buried in her paws. She was still, but abundant evidence of her just-passed tantrum lay everywhere Vanessa looked: books thrown from their shelves, clay vessels smashed to shards upon the floor with their contents spilled all over, sheets and blankets torn from their beds, and two of the beds themselves tipped over.

And there, angelic and peaceful amidst the chaos, lay Sister Aurelia. Mercifully, the deceased mouse looked perfectly intact; except for the blood staining the pillow beneath her head, she might have been asleep.

Vanessa made her way to the desk, carefully guiding her unshod footpaws around the sharp fragments littering the floor, and stopped before the stricken vixen. Mona raised her red-rimmed eyes to meet Vanessa's.

"I ... I couldn't save her, Abbess."

"I didn't expect that you would be able to, my child."

"You don't understand. I can save anybeast!"

Vanessa sighed and rested a paw upon Mona's shoulder; the distraught healer accepted the gesture without resistance or complaint.

"You are still young, Mona, and life no doubt has many lessons yet to teach you. This was one of those lessons. Some injuries are beyond the skill of any healer to mend. Sister Aurelia's were such. Nobeast will blame you for failing to do the impossible."

"I can't accept that, Abbess. I can never accept death."

"You must accept it. Death comes to us all someday. For some of us, alas, that time comes long before it should. But that is the way of things."

"Then things must change!" Mona declared defiantly.

Vanessa saw that further argument would be futile. For all her supposed talents as a healerbeast, Mona had the temperament of a recalcitrant child when it came to the subject of death, and losing a patient.

"None of this is any excuse for your outburst," Vanessa said, her voice growing a little firmer. "You've made quite a mess here, and it will take a great deal of work to get it cleaned up. In the meantime, we still have over a dozen youngbeasts outside with upset stomachs. If you'll help me, I should be able to scrape up enough of these ingredients off the floor to whip up a new batch of physic for them, and then we can leave it to the brothers and sisters to straighten up in here and tend to Aurelia. Won't you please lend me your paw? I would truly appreciate it, Mona."

The vixen stared at the Abbess with wide, watery eyes, then nodded. "Yes, I'll help you ... "

Together, the two healers set to the task of scooping up the spilled medicines and concocting a curative potion to soothe the distressed youngbeasts waiting down on the lawns.

00000000000

The dancing flicker of many torches illuminated the funeral scene with a solemn glow. A bite of chill sharpened the clear night air, and not even the warmth of so many bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder on the lawns could completely dispel the cold and lend comfort to the mourners.

With Tolar, Roxroy, Browder and the former slaves on paw, this burial gathering was even more crowded than Broyall's had been. Vanessa had chosen a spot near the Abbey gardens for Sister Aurelia's grave. In recent seasons, a section of the gardens had been set aside for the cultivation of medicinal herbs, so that the healer mice would not have to wander far afield to gather all the ingredients for any remedies they might need. Aurelia had often mentioned that she would be perfectly happy being laid to her final rest within a stone's throw from her beloved gardens. Nobeast had imagined, however, that this sad day would come so soon.

Under Vanessa's urging, Sister Orellana had prepared Aurelia's body for immediate interment. The Abbess wanted to get this sorrowful ceremony behind them as soon as they could, even if it meant a nighttime funeral. The matter of Broggen weighed heavily upon Vanessa's mind, and she wished to devote all her attention to that problem once her friend and protege had received her proper farewell. And, as far as the appropriateness of holding a funeral on a Nameday, everybeast had lost their festive spirit long before now, so it would be no further hardship to press on with what had to be done anyway.

Foremole and Brother Joel had done a marvelous job with the plot. Once Aurelia was laid in the ground and covered with earth, Redwall's chief gardener mouse had supervised the planting of a bed of sanicle in the burial mound, so that hopefully for many growing seasons to come Aurelia's resting place would be marked by a crop of the medicinal herbs she had used so often in her cures, and provide a bounty for her successors to harvest. Foremole's crew had then outlined the plot with decorative red bricks, so that the grave would be marked even after winter's frosts and snows killed off the plants growing upon the mound.

"I'd like to thank you all for staying up so late, and braving this nippy night," Vanessa addressed the assemblage; even Highwing and some of his Sparra hung on the edges of the group, having received their share of healing and mending and tonics from Aurelia during her tenure as Infirmary Keeper. "I'm sure Sister Aurelia would have appreciated it. Or perhaps I should say I'm sure she does appreciate it, for I am confident her spirit is watching over us right now. She dearly loved this Abbey and all of the creatures in it, even if she did sometimes hide that affection behind a mask of sternness, and I have a feeling she will be loathe to leave Redwall behind her for the Dark Forest. Perhaps she will even join Martin the Warrior in watching over this haven henceforth, visiting us in dream and visions to help us when she may in our times of need."

She paused a few moments, allowing this comforting notion to sink into the assembled mourners and have its desired effect. Wistful smiles came to many a face in the wavering torchlight. Brother Geoff shot Vanessa a curious look which the Abbess failed to notice.

"I know a lot of you are tired and well past ready to get to bed," she continued, "especially the children and the oldsters, so I won't make this too long.

"Sister Aurelia was very special to me. I had occasion to work with her closely when I was training her to take my place as the head of the Infirmary, and I daresay I knew her better than anybeast else at Redwall did. It is true that she could sometimes be brusque in her manner, but I believe her impatience was her way of expressing her insistence on performing her duties to the best of her ability. She was a diligent student and a tireless worker, and demanded perfection no less from herself than from those around her. Behind her abrupt facade beat a heart as filled with goodness and caring as any you could ever hope to meet. She gave of herself totally, and was wholly dedicated to helping and healing others. Aurelia was one of the most selfless creatures I have ever had the privilege to know, and her sudden passing at such a young age is truly a tragic loss for Redwall."

Vanessa sighed deeply. "And so, for the second time in three days, we lay to rest a member of our family. That this came to pass on a Nameday only compounds the tragedy, for it is especially traumatic to receive such a blow on our highest occasion of festivity, turning our mood of cheer and celebration to one of horror and sadness as a leaf might turn on the wind. That this blow came at the paws of a beast we all regarded as a friend only makes it all the more shocking, but this is a matter we will not dwell upon tonight. Let this night be for Aurelia, for it is she we honor here now. She had so many talents and good qualities. I want every one of you who knew her, from the oldest to the youngest, to think of one thing about Aurelia that you liked - a recipe from her early mornings in the kitchens that you found especially tasty, an occasion when you benefited from her healing skills, or just some moment when she showed you a kindness or shared a laugh with you or helped you with some chore or endeavor. Summon up in your minds that one picture of Aurelia that showed her as a true Redwaller, and focus upon it with all your concentration. When you go to bed tonight, I want you all to remember her in your dreams. Tonight we will send her spirit on its way with the best and warmest wishes and feelings we can muster, and then we will awake tomorrow to a fresh new day with all our friends around us and the rest of the Spring of Many Wanderers ahead of us and with all the wonderful possibilities of the living world at our pawtips. This day's events drive home to us that life is too short to wallow in sadness. Be sorrowful tonight if you must, but remember to keep Sister Aurelia in your dreams and in your hearts, and tomorrow will come of its own accord, and we might as well embrace it in joy and gladness."

She drew in a deep breath. "Now, I'm sure I'm not the only one here with cold tail and footpaws, so let us all go inside now and warm up while we consign this day to history."

As the somber gathering broke up and the various creatures began to drift back toward the Abbey each at its own pace, Geoff hurried over to Vanessa and took her aside. "What you said about Aurelia's spirit joining Martin's in watching over Redwall," he whispered to her, "that was very moving and inspirational, but after what I found in my search of the archives last summer when I was looking for clues about Lord Urthblood's prophecy, I thought we agreed that the spirit of Martin might well be cut off from us by that badger's own powers of foresight."

She glanced at him sharply. "We never agreed anything of the sort! The verse you uncovered suggests that these times may have been hidden from our founders when they were alive, and even in that regard it was most vague and open to interpretation. I am still confident that Martin the Warrior watches over us, and his guiding spirit will make itself known to us in times of need." She lowered her voice further. "And if I were you, I wouldn't go around shouting that Martin's spirit has deserted us - just imagine the effect that would have on morale around here, especially in light of what happened today. There's a very good reason that I kept our findings and conclusions from last summer's council just to us Abbey leaders, you know."

"I wasn't shouting it," the Recorder mouse said a tad petulantly, then changed the subject. "So, what do you think is to be done about Broggen?"

"That remains to be seen," the Abbess answered. "Before I decide anything about his fate, I shall want to talk to him after he's had a chance to sober up ... which, Monty tells me, probably won't be until tomorrow. Broggen's out like a light, and he'll probably sleep straight through 'til morning."

"Then I guess your advice to all of us to head inside for a warm night's sleep between cozy bedcovers was the best idea after all. My ears and nose were getting every bit as chilled as my tail and - "

"Abbess! Abbess, a moment, if you please!"

The two mice turned to see Mona hastening toward them through the crowd. The vixen stopped before them breathlessly, white puffs clouding out of her muzzle. "Yes, Mona, how can I help you?" Vanessa asked.

"First of all, congratulations on a wonderful eulogy, Abbess. I didn't really have much chance to get to know Sister Aurelia - so many new names and faces for me here! - but after listening to your words just now, I almost feel like I knew her all my life. Truly moving. I don't believe I've ever heard anybeast in the Northlands speak with such eloquence."

"Thank you, Mona. That means a lot to me. I tried to make it the best sendoff for Aurelia that I could. She deserved that much."

Mona nodded. "Abbess, please excuse my behavior in the Infirmary this afternoon. I don't know what came over me. I confess I am not very good at accepting death - in all truth, it is not something I have had to confront very often in my career as a healer, such are my skills. I suppose the idea of a goodbeast like Sister Aurelia dying in such an unnecessary way, and here at Redwall of all places, just got under my fur more than it should have. But I realize there was no call for my egregious actions. Please accept my most abject apologies for causing you so much extra trouble when you least needed it, Abbess."

"I see I'm not the only eloquent beast out here tonight," Vanessa said with a smile. "Apology accepted. You were upset. We all were. You may have overreacted, but your frustration was understandable. You are our guest, and you thought you might be able to save the life of one of your hosts, but she was beyond even your ability to save."

"If you are willing to overlook my dreadful outburst of today," Mona went on, "I have something to ask. As you know, I had planned, with your leave, to dwell at Redwall anyway until Foxguard was ready. Sister Aurelia was your chief healer, and you are now without one. If you will have me, I would be most willing to serve in that post for the remainder of my stay at the Abbey."

"That is most generous of you," said Vanessa. "The tonic you helped me prepare for the children certainly did the trick in settling their poor stomachs. I'll tell you what: I see no need to make anything official, even on a temporary basis. As you say, you'll be staying here with us anyway, so we'll be able to call upon your expertise if we should need it. Feel free to go up to the Infirmary whenever you wish and read through the journals that Aurelia and I kept during our time as Infirmary Keepers. I do appreciate your offer, and I assure you we will make full use of your breadth of knowledge and experience if the need arises."

"Thank you, Abbess. I'll not disappoint you again." Mona nodded her gratitude and wandered off to rejoin Tolar and Roxroy in heading up to their guest rooms.

"Well," Geoff observed, "it looks like we've lost one healer this day and gained another. At least until Mona leaves for Foxguard."

"Yes," Vanessa said, "it is funny how fate often gives with one paw and takes with another, and leaves everything balanced out in the end just as it should be ... even if it's not the way we would have liked it to be."

"Do you think she can be trusted with the health of Redwallers? I mean, after what Abbot Arlyn told you about her this afternoon ... "

"That morbid fascination of hers only seems to apply to deadbeasts," Vanessa responded, "or so Arlyn indicated. As long as no more of us die, we should be fine on that score. And we do need a healer. I'll be too busy performing my duties as Abbess to return to the Infirmary full time, and Arlyn is too old to take over completely as Abbot again. Of course I will have to start training a replacement for Aurelia immediately, and perhaps Mona can help with that too. But as long as that vixen is here at Redwall, I'll gladly accept whatever assistance she is willing to give." Vanessa glanced aside to see Colonel Clewiston marching toward her with purpose. "And speaking of my duties as Abbess ... "

"Wot ho, ma'am," the hare commander called as he flagged her down. "We've got t' decide wot t' do 'bout that sodden stoat we got in cold storage."

"We're all in the cold at the moment, Colonel." Vanessa quickened her pace toward the warm glow spilling out the open Abbey doors. "We'll talk about this after we've all had a chance to sleep on it."

"With all due respect, ma'am ... " Clewiston pressed.

Vanessa waved an inarguable paw of dismissal. "In the morning, Colonel. In the morning!"


	12. Chapter 41

Chapter Forty-One

In another part of the retiring crowd, Smallert was talking to the mouse brothers Cyril and Cyrus.

"If one o' you wouldn't mind," the one-eared weasel asked, "would it bother you terribly much t' come sleep in my room? I ain't never been fond o' sleepin' in a lonely, empty place, from th' time I served in Lord Urthblood's infantry up t' gettin' Broggen assigned as me roommate here. Don't reckon sleep'll come easy t' any o' us tonight, but I know I'm more like t' drift off if I got somebeast raisin' a snore b'sides me."

"Well, I don't think either me or Cyril snores much," Cyrus said, "but if he doesn't mind sleeping in our room alone, I'd be glad to do it, Smallert."

"Sure," the older brother agreed with a shrug. "If it'll help you out ... " Cyril was willing to concede the honor of comforting their weasel companion to Cyrus. Both felt a close affinity for Smallert, but ever since the Abbess had granted him clemency the previous summer for almost slaying Cyrus and granted him leave to dwell at the Abbey, it was the younger mouse who'd come to share a special bond with the beast who'd nearly taken his life.

It was the warrior stoat now locked up in the cellars who dominated Cyril's thoughts, his own bond with Broggen akin to the one between Cyrus and Smallert. Cyril knew he was largely responsible for persuading the Abbess to allow Broggen to live at Redwall, and now that stoat had killed Sister Aurelia. Cyril's mind roiled, and he silently agreed with Smallert that he probably wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight, with or without a roommate.

"You c'n sleep in Broggen's bed, Master Cyrus," Smallert was saying. "He won't be usin' it tonight, an' as long's you don't mind sharin' th' bunk of a murderer - "

"Broggen's no murderer!" Cyril burst out, causing several creatures nearby to turn their heads suddenly. "What happened today was an accident!"

The excited mouse felt a comforting paw on his shoulder, and turned to see that Abbot Arlyn had come up behind him. Gazing into the calm eyes of the benevolent oldbeast, Cyril found his tension draining away.

"That may well turn out to be the case, Cyril," Arlyn said in his most venerable and soothing tone. "I for one am waiting until we can speak with Broggen before I condemn anybeast as a murderer. And his punishment, if he is to receive any punishment at all, will depend upon what he has to say to us once he is sober and awake, and brought face to face with this terrible tragedy he has caused."

"Whaddya mean, if 'ee's punished t'all?" Smallert asked the retired Abbot, confused. "He went an' killed poor Sister Aurelia! He's gotta be punished fer that, an' harsh too!"

Arlyn looked at the weasel. "You and Broggen were the closest of friends until this afternoon. I would have thought that if anybeast at Redwall were going to feel sympathetic toward him, it would be you. Why are you so quick to condemn him, and withhold any benefit of doubt?"

Smallert stuttered and stammered before falling into the flow of his explanation. "Th' benefit o' th' doubt's just what you good folk showed me 'n' Broggs when you said we could live 'ere. You went out on a limb, 'specially in my case. An' now Broggs has gone an' ruined it all! After today, you'd be in yer rights t' boot us both outta Redwall, an' never let another weasel, stoat or ferret inta this fair place ever again!"

"Hey there, friend," Grayfoot barked as he passed by with his wife Judelka, "leave us ferrets outta this, huh?"

"But you saw as well as the rest of us, Smallert," Arlyn went on, "that Broggen was anything but himself today. How can we blame him for what he did, if he wasn't responsible for his behavior?"

Smallert shrugged. "Murder's murder, whether y' take a life when ye're drunk or sober. That's what Lord Urthblood would say, an' looks t' me like th' Colonel an' Lady Mina'd both agree wi' that."

"This is neither Salamandastron nor the Northlands," said Arlyn. "We are not ruled by a Badger Lord, or by the strict military discipline of the Long Patrol. Vanessa and I shall determine Broggen's fate in the way that we deem appropriate. And you can rest assured that our decision will be formed by compassion and understanding, and not some blind desire for retribution or to mete out punishment for its own sake."

"Oh." Smallert put his paw on Cyrus's shoulder and started guiding the young mouse toward the Abbey. "Guess that's why y' got smart beasts runnin' things 'round here. Glad I'm just a simple weasel who don't hafta worry 'bout justice 'n' such. C'mon, Cyrus, let's get t' bed ... "

Arlyn started toward his gatehouse cottage, and was surprised to find Cyril sticking by his side. "Can I help you with something, my son?"

"Um ... I guess I really don't feel like being alone tonight either, and now that Cyrus is going to sleep in Smallert's room, I was wondering, if it's not too much trouble, Abbot ... "

Arlyn smiled. "You know the couch in my parlor is always available for anybeast in need. Come along then, Cyril - you can lend me a paw with getting a nice cozy blaze started in my fireplace!"

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"Motha Maura?" asked Cuffy the dormouse as the badger matriarch tucked the smaller creature into its bed. "Why do we put beasts in th' dirt when they die?"

"So the bugs don't get 'em!" Droge yelled out from his adjacent dormitory bed.

"Burr, that bain't true, Drogey," Padgett the mole corrected his hedgehog friend. "Thurr be more crawlybugs in 'ee urth than anywhurr else!"

"Hush now, both of you," Maura admonished the two youths for their wild speculation. "Cuffy asked a perfectly reasonable question, and it deserves a valid answer." She looked down at the dormouse, staring expectantly up at her from the lip of his updrawn blanket tucked under his tiny chin. "One reason we bury our departed loved ones on the Abbey grounds, Cuffy, is so that we can keep their memory close to us, and this helps us to honor them and keep them in our thoughts and in our hearts."

"Then why dont'cha just let 'em lie out in Cavern Hole or Great Hall, where everybeast can see 'em?"

"Cuz then they'd get all stinky an' rotted an' spoil our appetites!" Droge gleefully postulated.

Maura shook her head. These children had all been so well-behaved and properly solemn during Aurelia's funeral, but now they were starting to revert to their usual rambunctious selves - especially Droge. Which, after the sadness of this tragic day, wasn't an entirely bad thing, the badger mother reflected.

"Keeping them close to us is only part of the reason we bury our friends inside the Abbey after their spirits have departed this world," Maura said to Cuffy. "It's also in keeping with the way of nature. You see, all life comes from the earth, and we all go back to the earth in the end. Burying those who have died continues this ages-old cycle. This way, after a creature's spirit has moved on to the next world, its body can feed this one, and help nourish new life to come."

Cuffy's eyes were wide. "You mean th' earth's gonna eat me someday?"

"Well ... not for many, many seasons ... "

Cuffy pulled the blanket up over his face. "I don't wanna get eated by th' earth!"

"Oh, shush now, and calm yourself," Maura soothed, stroking the child's head between the ears - the only part of Cuffy still visible above the covers. "That impish spirit of yours - the thing that makes you you - will live on forever, and won't ever die. So don't fret about a day that won't come for more seasons than you can count. You're much too young to have such morbid thoughts cluttering up your head."

"But, Mother Maura," Droge interjected, causing the badger to roll her eyes in exasperation, "we don't come from the earth anyways! We come from our momma's bellies!"

"Burr hurr, Drogey, that bain't a noice thing ter be a-sayin'."

"It's true, Padge! Why, that ferret lady who's stayin' with us has got a baby growin' in her belly right now! That's why she's so fat!"

"She ain't fat," interjected Pirkko the shrew from his bed across the aisle. "She's just got a big tummy. I saw a couple shrewwives like that last summer. The babe grows inside 'em 'til they're ready t' be a-borned."

"Really?" This revelation inspired Cuffy to peek his face out from beneath his blanket. "I wonder what kinda baby that ferret lady's gonna have? Maybe it'll be a mousebabe, like me!"

"Or a 'hogbabe!" Droge blurted.

"Oi wunner if'n et cudd be a moler, loik oi," Padgett mused.

"Ye're all bein' silly!" Pirkko chastised his friends. "It'll be a ferretbabe, 'cos its mum 'n' dad're ferrets! That's why beasts get married, didn'tcha know - so they can have little ones just like 'em!"

"Pirkko's right," Maura affirmed. "Judelka's child will be a ferret, just like she and Grayfoot are."

"What if it doesn't wanna be a ferret?" Droge challenged.

Maura reached across and tweaked the 'hogchild's nose. "What if _you_ hadn't wanted to be a hedgehog, you impertinent little snip?"

"Aw, I never woulda wanted that, Mother Maura!" Droge playfully swatted at her massive paw. "Ev'rybeast knows 'hogs're th' best!"

"Oh, really? I know some mice who might beg to differ. Along with a few moles, squirrels, otters and maybe even a badger or two."

"Yurr hurr, Muvver Maura," inquired Padgett, "whoi does 'ee babe grow in ee muvver's stummick?"

"Where would you have it grow? In her tail?" Maura stood and strode to the center aisle between the two rows of beds. In the warm glow of the lamplight she ran her protective gaze up and down all the safely snuggled youngbeasts under her care. In recent seasons Sister Aurelia had taken over these tucking-in duties from Maura on many nights, and the badger always appreciated those occasional respites. Never more would the young healer mouse be sending Redwall's most precious asset off to their nocturnal slumbers.

Maura went from one lantern to another, dimming or extinguishing them until only the faintest of glimmers twinkled in the shadows of the darkened room. Then she trundled over to the big bed in one corner of the children's dormitory, the one she kept there for herself when she thought her presence would benefit her charges. She usually only slept here during the worst of inclement weather, but this day's events had to be as upsetting to these young minds as any thunderstorm would be.

"Sleep well, all of you," Maura encouraged them as she slipped into her oversized nightshirt. "Remember what the Abbess said outside: let's keep Sister Aurelia fondly in our dreams tonight, to help her spirit on its way, and then we'll all wake up to a fresh new day tomorrow with all our friends around us and all the rest of this wonderful season ahead of us. But if any of you should need me before the morning comes, I'll be right here."

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For that day's newlyweds, the afternoon's abrupt turn from celebration to tragedy raised its own unique dilemma.

Browder and Mizagelle paused in the corridor outside the third-floor dormitory assigned to the player hare. The two of them had decided that morning to spend their honeymoon up here rather than down in the Long Patrol tunnels; it was enough that Browder had made it through their wedding day unharmed, and they didn't want to risk raising the ire of the fighting hares by forcing their unpopular union upon Colonel Clewiston, Melanie and the others. Besides, the Long Patrol had two other newly married couples of their own, so Mizagelle figured she wouldn't be missed too badly.

One of the Abbey Sisters bustled out of their chamber, nodding to the two hares. "Okay, there's a covered crock of boiled water that should stay hot for most of the night along with fresh towels for bathing, a new bucket of rose-scented perfume water, and clean-scrubbed pots for your personal needs. You two shouldn't need to so much as poke your heads out your door until noontide tomorrow ... if that's your choice, of course." The mouse flashed an awkward smile, nodded again and hurried off down the hall, leaving the bride and groom to themselves.

"Well," Mizagelle teased her husband, "are you gonna carry me across the bally threshold in keepin' with romantic traditions?" Browder may have been a fast runner, and very well-developed from the waist down, but he clearly lacked the upper body strength to lift much more than a babe.

"Um ... "

"I was joking, you ninny!" Mizagelle laughed affectionately.

"Uh, it's not that, Mizzy m' love," Browder said as he gazed through the open door in uncertainty. "It's just that ... well, after wot happened to that poor mouse this afternoon, it hardly seems appropriate for th' two of us t' go havin' a honeymoon like all's hunky dory, wot? Especially since we had our jolly honeymoon last night, don'tcha know."

"Last night? That was just a warm-up for the real thing, my dear - a dry run for our nuptial bliss."

"Oh, is that wot it was? Well, it sure got this hare warmed up, tho' there wasn't too much dry about it. But still, with Sister Aurelia in her grave an' her killer locked away downstairs, it's hardly circumstances to put a chap or chapess in a honeymoonin' mood, wot?"

Mizagelle cozied up to Browder right there in the corridor. "It's life," she said to him softly. "And life goes on, even when death finds those close to us. Believe me, I know about that. Now, I don't know about you, but I can't think of any way I'd rather spend this night than living life to th' fullest, doin' wot's life-affirmin' an' takin' refuge 'n' solace in that. I need that more'n I need anything ... an' I can't do that by myself, Browder."

"Well, when y' put it that way ... Whoah!"

Browder's new bride took him quite by surprise when she ducked behind him, grabbed him by the knees and shoulders, and literally swept him off his feet. She stood there a moment, cradling him in her arms, smiling down at his startled expression.

"Hey, I figured one of us had better carry the other 'cross this threshold, 'fore this night got any colder!" she giggled.

"Well, at least now it's decided who'll be wearin' th' pants in this marriage," Browder sighed.

"Posh! The day you see any hare of th' Patrols wearin' pants is th' day you can retire us all to our rockin' chairs out in the orchard! Can't properly run or fight in those things, an' no self-respectin' Long Patrol would be caught flat-footed without its legs free for runnin', jumpin' or kickin'."

"Speakin' as a jolly old runner m'self, I can most certainly empathize with th' sprintin' part o' that. Now wotcha say we go find out wot else these long legs of ours're good for?"

"I thought we covered that pretty well last night," Mizagelle grinned with a wink, then added, "I always fantasized 'bout takin' charge like this on my wedding night. Good thing I went an' fell head over heels fer you - I never could o' done this with most o' those brawny lunks we got down in th' Long Patrol tunnels." She wasn't even beginning to tire or tremble from the stress of bearing Browder's weight.

"Uh, those're some sure 'n' steady paws y' got there, Mizzy m'gel. But, are we gonna stay out here all night?"

"Course not. Just couldn't pass up this chance t' show off my bowbeast's muscles, don'tcha know." Mizagelle carried Browder into their room, then used one footpaw to kick the door closed behind them. They'd been assured that nobeast would disturb them until well past sunrise, and they meant to take full advantage of the privacy being afforded them.

Down on the second floor in another part of the Abbey, meanwhile, Alexander and Mina snuggled together in their own bed - the first time they'd shared such an arrangement since midwinter, and the first time they could do so without the threat of a reprimand from the Abbess hanging over their heads, now that they were officially husband and wife. For the moment they contented themselves with lying nestled in each other's arms, leaving more amorous activities for another time.

"I can't believe our wedding day was marred by such a tragedy," Mina said to the darkness.

"I know," Alex agreed, running his paw in a caressing circle around one of his mate's ears, eliciting a periodic reflexive flick. "Ours, and Lieutenant Gallatin's and Florissant's, and Baxley's and Givadon's ... and let's not forget Browder and Mizagelle! If ever a day went from the absurd to the tragic ... "

They lay on their sides facing each other, their tails tucked up between them. Mina began absently stroking Alex's bush between her paws. "What do you think the Abbess will do with Broggen?"

"I don't know," Alex sighed. "It's not our way to imprison anybeast, no matter how terrible their crimes, but I can't see what other choice Vanessa has. Maybe to declare him Outcast ... "

"He deserves death, you know."

"No, I don't know that ... and neither do you. Broggen didn't seem to be in control of himself, and I certainly can't say that he meant to kill Sister Aurelia when he pushed her."

"Alex, you heard how Broggen was acting! Nasty and brutish, like a complete barbarian! Like ... like a vermin!"

"I also know he didn't start drinking of his own accord. Whatever beast it was who slipped Broggs his first taste of spirits today is as responsible for Aurelia's death as Broggen is, but I don't hear you calling for their death as well."

"If I find out, I'll be very tempted to give them a drop from the walltop, and hope they land on their thick skulls. But it's Broggen who bears the brunt of the blame for this. A beast who's dangerous when he drinks, and who can't stop himself once he gets started, is a creature that should be removed from civilized society ... permanently."

"Well, that's not your decision to make ... or mine." Alex began his own caressing of Mina's tail. "We must abide by the Abbess's judgment. And if she determines that he is to live, I would be very disappointed in you or anybeast else if they violate her wishes ... inside this Abbey or out."

"It's hard to argue with a loving husband who can stroke a tail so deliciously," Mina murmured in contentment. "I'll abide by whatever the Abbess decides. But I don't think it's me that you - or Broggen - have to worry about most."

"Hmm ... you mean the Long Patrol, I take it?"

"Especially Hanchett. And maybe even Smallert. I think they're both angrier at Broggen than they're showing. If the Abbess spares his life and banishes him from Redwall, I don't know if I'd trust them not to hunt down that stoat and give him their own idea of justice ... no matter what the Abbess says."

"Then we'll have to keep an eye on that, won't we? Mmmm ... let's not talk about this anymore tonight. It's our wedding night, after all."

"Agreed," Mina quickly concurred.

The two squirrels turned their attention to matters more befitting their official honeymoon.


	13. Chapter 42

Chapter Forty-Two

Broggen awoke with the worst hangover of his life ... and that would turn out to be the high point of his day.

He could see by the lantern that had been left with him that he lay in one of the cellar storerooms, but he could not for the life of him recall how he'd gotten there. Dim and fragmented memories of the Nameday celebrations tumbled through his head. He could vaguely remember the strawberry-veiled taste of alcohol hitting his tongue for the first time in many seasons, and additional mugs of unadulterated ale after that. But all was hazy and topsy-turvy in his mind. He didn't require clear recollection to know he must at some point have moved onto stronger drink than ale - the potent pounding in his skull was evidence enough of that.

In fact, he didn't see how any binge, no matter how debauched, could have anointed him with such a blinding headache. Reaching one paw around behind his ears as he sat up on the storeroom floor, Broggen felt a pair of formidable and tender bumps pulsating below the fur. He also noticed that his beret, which had come to be practically a part of him, was not in its proper place atop his scalp. What, had he been drinking _and_ fighting? No wonder he was in such bad shape ...

A sudden worry stabbed its way to the forefront of his blurred awareness. Bumps on the noggin ... and waking up to find himself cast into an old empty cellar room. His Abbey friends wouldn't have put him down here if he'd simply gotten drunk and fallen on his own. Yes, he must have gotten into some kind of altercation. But, fighting at Redwall? This was terrible! He'd promised the Abbess when he came to live here that he'd be forever on his best behavior and never give her cause to regret taking him into their community. Had he gone and ruined it all?

Broggen struggled to his feet and crossed to the room's door on wobbly legs. He gave the handle a couple of halfhearted tries to confirm his worst suspicions. It was indeed locked.

They'd locked him in here. This was not good. Not good at all.

Even as Broggen stood there, tumultuous thoughts churning through his sluggish mind, the door clicked and opened a crack, letting a slightly brighter slice of light fall across his face from the hallway beyond. Squinting, Broggen could make out the stern, humorless visage of Hanchett staring in at him.

"Ah. Finally awake, are we?" The hare's voice was as cold as the ice-crusted pond in midwinter.

"Um ... did I go an' cause trouble?" Broggen inquired tremulously.

"Stoat, you cannot even begin to imagine how much trouble you're in," Hanchett bit off in clear, curt words, then slammed and locked the door again.

As he heard Hanchett instructing somebeast else to go fetch the Abbess, Broggen began to tremble and quake as he never had before in his life.

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When Vanessa arrived - with Alexander, Mina, Colonel Clewiston and Montybank at her side - she found Broggen collapsed back into a corner on the bare floor, knees drawn up to his chest and paws wrapped around them as if he were a lost and frightened child.

The stoat, chewing anxiously on his lower lip, stared up with wide eyes as the Abbey leaders fanned out in a line to face him. Their expressions ranged from sympathetic and pitying to hard as marble. The Colonel and the Gawtrybe squirrel in particular regarded him as if he were a condemned beast.

The Abbess stepped forward. "Broggen, what do you remember about the Nameday feast yesterday?"

"Oooo," he moaned, "please tell me I didn't go an' hurt nobeast ... "

"I'm afraid you did," Vanessa said sadly. "Sister Aurelia."

"No!" Broggen clutched at his breast. "Is she ... is she hurt bad?"

Vanessa saw no need to sugarcoat the facts for the stoat's benefit; the sooner he was confronted with the truth, the sooner they could all get on with deciding what was to be done with him.

"She's dead, Broggen. You pushed her, and she fell and hit her head. She never woke up after that."

Broggen's eyes grew watery as comprehension sank in. "Oh no. Nonono ... "

"Don't you remember any of this?" the Abbess questioned him.

Tears spilled down Broggen's cheeks, and he put his paws up to his face. At first Vanessa thought he just meant to wipe his eyes or bury his face in shame, but then she realized to her alarm that the stoat was actually clawing at his flesh, and within moments blood was mingling with the tears wetting his fur.

Vanessa, forgetting that this pathetic creature had slain a mouse only the day before, rushed forward and forcibly tore Broggen's paws away from his face before he could blind himself or cause serious harm. Her larger protectors tensed, and a couple took steps forward in case the stoat grew violent with her.

"Broggen! Stop that!"

"Slay me, Abbess!" he implored, gazing up at her with tear-filled eyes. "I don't deserve to live!"

"No!" Vanessa found herself saying almost automatically, invoking her full authority as Abbess. With all her strength she held Broggen's paws down so that he could cause himself no further harm. "No, I'll not have you slain. I suspected that what happened yesterday was an accident, and now that I have seen your reaction to this news, it is clear to me that you could not have meant to kill Sister Aurelia, not even in your drunken state. I do not know what your punishment shall be, but I am now certain that it will not be death."

She stepped back away from him as he lowered his head. Alex and Monty regarded the despondent stoat with undisguised pity, while Mina actually looked openly disappointed at Vanessa's verdict. Colonel Clewiston also shared this attitude, but for different reasons.

"With all due respect, ma'am," the senior hare said to the Abbess, "this beast is clearly in torment. Perhaps you'd best not dismiss out o' paw his request to be put out o' his misery."

"He is wracked with guilt," Vanessa countered. "As you would expect any goodbeast to be over this. Remorse is not an incurable condition, Colonel. And I will not hold Broggen to anything he says in these first moments after learning what he has done."

"If you say so, ma'am."

The Abbess returned her attention to the captive creature. "Take heart, Broggen. There are many at Redwall who have come to think of you as a friend, and many of those would still support you through this difficult time. We have already had to bury one member of our community as a result of this, and I do not wish to see this become a double tragedy. I have decided you should live. Please do not violate my wishes - that would only bring more sadness atop what we have already suffered. I know this pains you, but I want you to promise that you won't do anything rash until I have an opportunity to speak with you again. Will you promise me this?"

Broggen nodded, neither speaking nor looking up at anybeast.

"Very well. I have much to think about. I will return as soon as I can. Do not lose hope, Broggen. You are not alone."

Vanessa and her companions withdrew from the storeroom, now a prison cell.

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As she brushed by Hanchett on her way upstairs, Vanessa said to the hare, "I want somebeast in there with Broggen at all times until I can meet with him again. Now that he's awake and aware of what he's done, I don't know whether we can trust him not to hurt himself. It won't be enough just to have a guard out here in the corridor. Can I count on you for this, or shall I send somebeast else down to assist you?"

Hanchett returned the Abbess's question with an unflinching stare. Unlike Smallert, who'd been convinced to stand down and let Monty's otters guard Broggen during the night, the taciturn Long Patrol hare had steadfastly refused to leave his self-appointed post since the stoat's imprisonment the day before.

"I'll go in there," he said to Vanessa.

"And you'll not hurt him? Or allow him to come to any harm?"

"I'll not hurt him, Abbess. On that you have my word."

"Hrm." Vanessa gave a hesitant nod, then led the other Abbey leaders up the passage and out of the cellars, leaving Hanchett alone ... for the moment.

The hare knew the Abbess didn't trust him, and that very shortly he would be joined by another otter or a squirrel or perhaps even one of his fellow hares to safeguard the murderous stoat. Hanchett wasted no time in unlatching the door and slipping into the makeshift cell.

Broggen looked up at Hanchett's arrival, his forlorn face a picture of misery. The unsmiling Long Patrol crouched down in front of the captive beast. "So, now you know wot you've done. How's that make you feel, stoat?"

"Like I wish I never been born," Broggen muttered through his tears. "Makes me wish now more'n ever that it'd been me you slew at Salamandastron instead o' poor Jansy."

"That makes two o' us, don'tcha know. An' don't think I wasn't aimin' at you back then - your mouse buddy just jumped in front o' th' javelin an' took the thrust wot was meant for you. I'll tell you this, no mouse would've gone an' slain a Redwaller in a drunken rage."

Broggen cradled his head in his paws. "What'm I gonna do?" he moaned in despair.

"Only one thing y' can do, if you got a scrap of honor in you." Hanchett reached into his tunic and produced a small and exceedingly sharp dagger. With an air of encouragement he pressed the weapon into Broggen's paw. "Nobeast with half a heart could live with th' shame of wot you did, chap, an' I know you got a good heart for a vermin. You got the Abbess absolutely stricken over this - she doesn't want to order your death, but she doesn't know wot else t' do with you. This's on you, Broggs. Only you can solve this dilemma for her, by liftin' the burden of this dread responsibility off her shoulders. It's the right thing t' do."

Broggen stared at the deadly blade lying across his limp and trembling paw. "But ... but th' Abbess made me ... promise I wouldn't ... "

"Oh, pah! She had t' say those things, 'cos she's Abbess. If she hadn't, an' you went ahead an' did wot's gotta be done, she'd have a guilty conscience. Now, she won't. She was only freein' you for this, don'tcha see?"

"Um ... I guess ... " Broggen began to handle the dagger more purposefully.

"You know wot you gotta do." Hanchett gave the stoat a companionly pound on the shoulder. "I only hope you got the proper courage t' do it, an' save the poor Abbess an' all these other good folks a whole lot o' grief 'n' fuss 'n' bother from tormentin' themselves over wot t' do with you. Do 'em all a favor - take charge o' this yourself, an' spare 'em from havin' t' make a decision they don't wanna make."

Broggen stared wordlessly at the blade in his tightening grasp.

Hanchett stood and backed toward the door. "I'll leave you now, friend. Do the right thing."

Then the hare was gone, and Broggen was left alone with his mortal thoughts, and the means to fulfill them.

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Hanchett had been right about one thing: it was not long at all before the hare heard the approach of other beasts coming along the tunnel toward him. Glancing up from where he lounged against the wall alongside the locked door, Hanchett saw the squirrel Elmwood and the young bellringer mouse Cyril ambling his way.

Elmwood cast a critical eye at the hare's seeming lackadaisical attitude. "I thought the Abbess wanted somebeast in there with Broggen at all times?"

Hanchett simply shrugged. "He wanted to be alone. Besides, wot was I s'posed t' do, lock myself in there alone with a flippin' murderer?"

"Broggen's not a murderer!" Cyril protested, as he had with Smallert the night before.

"Yeah," Elmwood said, "and you're a Long Patrol fighter. You could probably knock Broggs senseless before he could lift a paw, if he tried anything. Not that he's likely to, from what I've heard."

"Well, now that you're here it won't be a problem, wot?" Hanchett said almost dismissively.

Elmwood scowled, a slight twitch to his tail betraying his agitation. "No, I suppose not. So, do you want to take the first watch in there with him, or shall I?"

Hanchett shrugged again. "Your jolly prerogative, chap."

The squirrel and mouse stared at Hanchett, mystified. The hare's manner was bizarre - almost as if Hanchett didn't seem to think any of this was important. "Okay," Elmwood announced, "I'll go in first. Cyril here wanted to see him too, so we'll go in together. You can stay out here ... since this spot seems to suit you."

Elmwood opened the door and stepped inside, with Cyril following anxiously at his heels. Hanchett poked his head into the room after them, but remained in the hall.

Broggen sat hunched in the same spot where Hanchett had left him, knees to his chest. The sorrowful stoat gazed up at the two newcomers, lip quivering and eyes swimming. Of the dagger there was no sign.

"Too bad," Hanchett muttered, and withdrew completely into the corridor. Cyril and Elmwood threw another confused glance at the retreating hare, then turned their attention to Broggen.

The squirrel guard went to the far corner of the storeroom, as far from the imprisoned creature as he could get without leaving the chamber, and took up station with his back against the wall and paws crossed over his chest. "I'm just gonna keep watch over you," he said in a flat, official tone, as if Broggen were just some chore and not a living, thinking, feeling beast.

Cyril's attitude toward his stoat friend was as different from Elmwood's as night and day. The novice mouse squatted down before Broggen, looking him in the eye with a clearly sympathetic gaze and laying a reassuring paw on the stoat's knee. "Don't worry, Broggs. Everything's gonna be all right ... "

Broggen gave his head a vehement shake. "Naw, Cyril lad, ye're wrong there. Things ain't never gonna be all right ever again. I let ya down, an' I'm as sorry as I can be 'bout it. I took a goodbeast's life, an' there's no way I can give it back. A killer like me can't be allowed t' live 'mongst decent creatures."

"Don't say that!" Cyril objected. "You weren't yourself when you ... when you did what you did. Nobeast can blame you for what happened!"

"I blame me, Cyril. T'weren't nobeast else's paws that shoved poor Sister 'relia. Her blood's on me, an' there's no arguin' that. Sad truth is, when I get t' drinkin' I can't stop, an' I turn into a mean nasty drunk, not fit nor safe t' be 'round decent folks."

"But, you've always been able to keep from drinking before. And it wouldn't have been a problem yesterday either if that shrew sergeant hadn't slipped you strawberry fizz with October ale in it."

Elmwood straightened at this revelation.

"Oh, is that what happened?" Broggen shook his head at the elusive memories. "My mind's so muddled, I can't make heads ner tails of anything that happened yesterday. Prob'ly just as well - t'would break my heart more'n it already is if'n I remembered all I done. But, y' see, it don't matter who got me started - it coulda been anybeast, by accident. I'm a danger t' other creatures, an' I can't live at Redwall no more." He twiddled with the front flap of his tunic, as if he had something concealed under the garment, but the gesture escaped Cyril's notice. "Prob'ly can't live anywhere else, neither. Anyplace I went, I'd be a right hazard to others ... "

"Broggen, don't talk that way!" Cyril begged his stoat friend. "You're scaring me!"

"Well, mebbe you should be, lad. What if it'd been you I'd shoved instead o' Sister Aurelia? It coulda been, y' know."

This got through to the young bellringer. "You ... you would never do that, Broggen," Cyril said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself as much as the stoat.

"Naw .. an' I would never harm Sister Aurelia neither. But I did, Cyril lad. I became a monster yesterday, an' nobeast woulda been safe from me. Not even you."

"Then ... then we'll just make sure you never drink again! We can do it! You've got a lot of friends here, Broggen. The Abbess wouldn't make you leave Redwall. It's the only place you can be protected from yourself!"

"Protected from m'self! Yeah, that's about th' size of it, ain't it?" Broggen closed his eyes and hung his head. "I'm a prisoner in my own drink-addled self, no matter where I go. Nobeast should hafta live like that. T'would be a greater kindness t' end my sufferin' ... "

"But then we'd miss you."

The stoat glanced up again at the heartfelt passion in the mouse's voice. "Yeah. Reckon I'd miss you too, Cyril. You an' Cyrus've been mighty good t' me. More'n I deserve, I daresay."

Cyril reached into his habit and withdrew a small wadded bundle of black fabric. He flapped it sharply a couple of times to snap it back into its proper shape, then passed it to Broggen. "Hey, I thought you might want this. It fell off in all the confusion yesterday."

Broggen fumbled with the limp headpiece for several moments before ducking his head and placing the beret upon his scalp at its customary jaunty angle. In his present mood of despair, it looked more forlorn than jovial.

"There. You were looking almost incomplete without that," Cyril said with forced cheer.

"Mebbe I'll leave it t' Smalley. It'd look good on him too, an' 'ee could use it t' cover that missin' ear ... "

"Broggen ... " Cyril implored.

"Jans would be so ashamed o' me now. He gave up so much o' his life t' try 'n' keep me on th' straight 'n' narrow. Even sacrificed 'imself in battle fer me. If he coulda seen what I'd come to, 'ee woulda let that hare's javelin find my heart, an' cry no tears over it neither. I feel almost as bad fer him as I do fer Sister 'relia. If only he'd let me go under that bog all them seasons ago when Lord Urthblood chucked me an' Briggsy inta it!"

Cyril didn't know what to say. Never in his young life had he ever come face to face with such abject misery as Broggen displayed now. He'd used up all the words he could think of to comfort the stoat and to persuade the despondent beast not to assume the worst, so he just sat there in silence.

Elmwood stirred, moving himself toward the open door. He wanted to share some of what he'd heard with the Abbess while it was still fresh in his mind. "I'm stepping out for a bit," he announced. "Will you two be all right here?"

To his surprise, it was the novice mouse who answered, "I won't let anything happen to him, Elmwood sir."

"Um ... okay. I'll be right back. Give Hanchett a yell if you need anything."

The hare in question was most startled to see Elmwood emerge from the cell alone and make for the stairs. "Hey, wot? Where're you going, chap?"

"Up for a quick word with the Abbess."

"An' you're gonna leave them two in there alone with each other? What if that drunken brute tries something?" Making no effort to keep his voice down, it was almost certain that Cyril and Broggen could hear his words.

"Well, then you'll just have to keep your Long Patrol eagle eye on them, won't you?" Elmwood said, then was gone.

00000000000

Fryc the shrew genuinely couldn't imagine why he'd been summoned by the Abbess.

The Northlands sergeant stepped into the study to find Vanessa seated behind her desk, but several other creatures occupied the room as well. Old Abbot Arlyn sat in one of the three chairs arranged before the Abbess, while Colonel Clewiston filled another. Off to the sides stood Alex and Monty, as well as the two young otters Brydon and Rumter, the mouse brothers Cyril and Cyrus, and the one-eared weasel Smallert. This gathering made the relatively small chamber rather crowded ... and every eye was on Fryc from the moment he crossed the threshold.

"Ah, thank you for coming, Sergeant," Vanessa said, playing the part of the congenial hostess. "Won't you please have a seat?" She extended her paw to indicate the vacant chair between Arlyn and Clewiston.

The shrew hesitated, caught off guard by the presence of so many Abbeybeasts, then made his way forward and took the proffered seat. "Whatcha need, marm?"

"As you are well aware, Sergeant, our Abbey suffered a terrible loss yesterday. It has come to my attention that you may have played a part in this."

"Who, me?" Fryc said in apparent surprise. He glanced around the study, and saw that all eyes were still upon him ... and those gazes were not at all friendly. Turning back to Vanessa, he declared, "I never hurt nobeast, Abbess!"

"No," Vanessa said coolly, "but you may have made it possible for somebeast else to do so. Tell me about the ale you gave Broggen."

"I ... um ... didn't actshully give that stoat no ale," Fryc stammered. "I just kinda set it down on 'is table. T'wasn't meant fer him specifically. Anybeast coulda picked it up an' helped themselves!"

"That's not true!" Cyril burst out. "You gave it right to Broggen, and said it was for him!"

"Aye," Smallert nodded, "that y' did, matey. I was there too, an' saw th' whole thing. You made Broggs think t'was just plain strawberry fizz, an' tricked 'im inta takin' that first sip."

"Yeah, but 'ee sure didn't need no trickery t' keep on swillin' that stuff!" Fryc sniggered.

The Redwallers all looked on aghast, appalled by the shrew's lack of remorse at being caught in a lie or having contributed to the death of Sister Aurelia. This was outright verminous behavior as far as the Abbeydwellers were concerned.

"You should be aware, Sergeant," Vanessa said to him, "that we here at Redwall abhor liars above almost all other types of creatures, except for murderers, thieves and slavers."

Fryc glared at the Abbess. "You callin' me a liar?" he challenged.

"Don't reckon she has to, wot?" Clewiston glowered down at the shrew. The smaller beast returned the Colonel's spiteful gaze measure for measure, showing not the slightest bit of intimidation.

"Sergeant," Vanessa went on, "whatever compelled you to give Broggen spirits?"

"Didn't seem natural, a beast like 'im drinkin' that sweet fizzy stuff, so I figgered I'd do 'im a favor. Sneak somethin' a little more 'propriate unner 'is nose, heh!"

Arlyn joined in the interrogation. "Did it never occur to you that maybe Broggen didn't care for anything stronger than strawberry cordial?"

"Phaw! Beasts like that, they don't know themselves what they want! T'was just havin' a little harmless fun with 'im!"

"Harmless?" Alex exploded from his spot along one wall. "Maybe you should go out and pay another visit to Sister Aurelia's grave, and then tell us again how harmless your little prank was!"

"You can't go blamin' me fer that!" Fryc protested. "I had no way o' knowin' he was gonna get so blasted drunk, or go an' do what 'ee did!"

"Maybe you should have," Vanessa said. "I've been doing a little checking on my own, Sergeant, and these two otters - " she nodded toward Rumter and Brydon, " - clearly heard Broggen declining your first offer of October ale. He told you in no uncertain terms that he dare not drink because of how it might make him behave. So what do you do? You have these otters mix you a drink that's three-quarters ale, with just enough strawberry fizz in it so that the smell and color would fool Broggen, and then you go and give it to him, making him think it's plain cordial! That's despicable, Sergeant!"

"Yeah, well, I sure didn't see nobeast else here stirrin' themselves overmuch t' make 'im stop drinkin' once he got started!"

"You're to blame for getting him started in the first place," Vanessa said to Fryc. "That was utterly reprehensible, Sergeant, and I hold you to be every bit as responsible for Aurelia's death as Broggen is - if not moreso."

"Hogwash! You can't talk t' me like this! I'm a soldier of Lord Urthblood's army!"

"Sure we can." Clewiston grinned mirthlessly. "It's our bally Abbey, don'tcha know. We'll talk to you any jolly way we please."

"Consider yourself lucky that talking is all we plan to do with you," Alex warned with more than a trace of menace. "If it were up to me, I'd throw you down in the cellar with Broggen, and let the two of you stew together!"

"And as for your being a soldier," Vanessa added, "I certainly don't see anything in the least honorable in your behavior, either yesterday or here now."

Fryc glowered at her. "So, whatcher gonna do?"

"You are no longer welcome at Redwall, Sergeant. I want you gone from the Abbey first thing in the morning."

"An' if you're not," Clewiston cautioned, "you can count on havin' many willin' paws t' show you th' jolly gate."

"Don't worry yerself, flopears," Fryc growled, glancing out the study's window at the afternoon glow. "If this's th' famous Redwall hospitality we've all heard about, me 'n' my shrews'll be gone from here by nightfall!"

"Good!" Clewiston, Alex and Monty spat as one.

Fryc practically hurled himself from his chair and stomped toward the door forcefully enough for a beast three times his size, his pawsteps smacking hard against the floor. In bad grace and high dungeon, he stormed out of the study, everything about his attitude wordlessly screaming that he held himself to be a creature wronged.

"What a pimple!" the Colonel muttered angrily.

"I can think of a few names worse than that I'd like to call him, but my station as Abbess prevents me. Well, at least we got that bit of unpleasantness out of the way. And now comes the hard part. Monty, Alex, would you please go bring Broggen up here? Arlyn, Colonel, I'd like the two of you to stay for this. The rest of you may leave."

As Brydon, Rumter, Cyril, Cyrus and Smallert made to file out of the chamber, the older mouse brother went to Vanessa. "Abbess, what are you going to do with Broggen?"

"What needs to be done, Cyril." Seeing the expression of alarm on the youth's face at her solemn pronouncement, Vanessa flashed an encouraging smile and leaned across her desk to lay a paw on Cyril's shoulder. "Do not worry. From this point on, I suspect the harshest part of his punishment will come from Broggen himself. You will be able to speak with him again soon."

"Can I stay? To hear what you're gonna say to him?"

"I'd rather you didn't, Cyril. This is something I must do on my own. You will know my decision in good time. You all will."


	14. Chapter 43

Chapter Forty-Three

When Monty and Alex returned to Vanessa's study with Broggen, Hanchett was at their side as well. The hare had stubbornly refused to have the stoat taken from his presence, and no objections by the two official escorts could dissuade Hanchett from his grim purpose. During the two seasons that Hanchett had dwelt at Redwall, the other Abbeybeasts had learned that he was practically a force unto himself, and arguing with him when he was determined about something was almost always an exercise in futility.

The chairs had been moved aside so that the prisoner could stand squarely before the Abbess's desk to receive his judgment. Arlyn alone remained seated during the proceedings; Vanessa stood behind her desk in her usual position of authority while Alex, Monty and Hanchett moved back against the walls to observe in silence.

Broggen stood with paws clasped behind his back as if they were bound there, even though nobeast had put him in restraints. But rather than hanging his head in shame, the stoat held his chin up high and did not flinch from meeting Vanessa's gaze with his own sad eyes. Thus did he stoically await the verdict on his fate.

"In all my time as Abbess," Vanessa began, "this is the hardest decision I have ever had to make. Yesterday, Redwall was hit by a double tragedy. It would have been bad enough to lose Sister Aurelia so suddenly under any circumstances, but for it to be at the paws of a creature so many of us have come to call a friend and a part of our family is doubly shocking. But I refuse to call this murder. In all truth, I am not even sure I can call it a crime at all - more like an extremely unfortunate alignment of events and coincidences that conspired to produce the worst possible result.

"Broggen, facts have been brought to my attention which lead me to conclude that you are nearly as much a victim in this whole unhappy affair as Aurelia was. And that makes what I have to say here all the harder."

The stoat gulped, but otherwise maintained his brave face.

"We knew about your past, and your weakness for drink, when you came to live with us. For many seasons your partner Jans had kept you sober and out of trouble, and after you became a Redwaller last autumn you made every effort to fit in with our community and obey all of our rules. I have seen this myself - we all have - and it would grieve us to lose you. But the hard truth is that your fatal weakness was always there, hiding somewhere beneath the surface. Yesterday, a deliberate and malicious trick was played upon you ... but what if it is an accident next time? Accidents happen. And if one taste of spirits past your lips is all it would take to set into motion another chain of tragic events ... You have taken a life, Broggen. The fault may not have been entirely yours, and you may not have meant to do such a thing, but I cannot overlook the fact that it was your paws which pushed Aurelia in her final moments of life. I cannot take a chance on such a thing happening again. You are a sleeping danger among us, and as much as it pains me to say this, you cannot remain at Redwall."

Broggen gave a nod of understanding. "Yeah, I kinda figgered that out on my own, ma'am. Have you definitely decided 'gainst havin' me put t' death? 'Cos if I were t' be granted th' kindness o' namin' my own punishment, that's what it would be."

"I suspected you might feel that way, especially after talking to you this morning," Vanessa acknowledged. "But I am sending you away for the safety of the other creatures at this Abbey, not as a sentence of punishment upon you. If it were up to me alone I might not even do this much, but as Abbess I must consider everybeast under my care. I can and do forgive you for what has happened, Broggen, but I must not ever forget it, or else I would be derelict in my duties. I still consider you a friend, as do a great many other beasts in this Abbey - a friend who has made a terrible mistake, and not entirely of your own volition. Friends do not put each other to death. If you are to receive any punishment at all, it will be the one you give yourself, for I expect you will never either forgive yourself nor forget what you have done. Perhaps that is as it should be. But I would strongly encourage you not to harm yourself even after you are outside our walls. You see, lives have a way of balancing themselves out, especially for goodhearted beasts, which is what I know you to be. I cannot say what it is, but I feel you still have some part to play in this world before you leave it. You are capable of good deeds, and I would not see Mossflower robbed of the chance to benefit from your actions. Perhaps you can make that your own personal penance for Sister Aurelia, and dedicate yourself to helping others in need in her memory."

"Yeah ... I guess ... "

"So," Clewiston said, "he's t' be declared Outcast?"

Vanessa shook her head. "No. If I declare Broggen Outcast, he will never be able to set foot inside Redwall again. I am not willing to make his banishment so complete. There may come a time in the seasons ahead when Broggen will need use of our Infirmary, or require shelter in times of trouble. I am not prepared to bar him from total access to this Abbey."

She addressed the forlorn stoat. "Broggen, I am not going to order you to leave Redwall, for if I do so it may be difficult for me, or any Abbot or Abbess who comes after me, to reverse that edict. You must leave Redwall, but I would like for you to do so voluntarily and of your own accord, so that you can be admitted through our gates again if the need should arise."

"Abbess, ye're bein' too kind t' me," Broggen half-blubbered. "O' course I'll do what you ask. I couldn't bear t' stay 'ere anyways - I'd die o' shame 'fore springtide was halfway done. Don't know what I'll do once I'm away from 'ere, but I'll try t' keep yer words in my mind. Nobeast has ever seen th' good in me that you do - 'ceptin' fer mebbe poor ol' Jansy - but if you think I got good deeds left in me, reckon I gotta go find out if'n ye're right. But I'll never darken yer doorstep again if I can possibly help it. Ye're rid o' this stoat, an' I won't cause you no more trouble."

"Lemme get this straight, ma'am," Clewiston asked the Abbess. "You're gonna let this brute loose in th' lands, where he'll be free t' repeat his crimes on unsuspectin' goodbeasts if he goes an' gets 'imself soused again?"

"Broggen's a goodbeast himself, Colonel, who will now have to make his own way in the world. What else would you have me do with him?"

"Well, consid'rin' that he was all but beggin' for death a few moments ago, I'd be willin' t' entertain the next best thing: lock him safely away from honest folk an' make sure he never causes anymore harm at all."

"I will not have even one room of Redwall turned into a prison!" Vanessa declared with vehemence. "That would be as bad as executing him ... possibly even worse!"

"Worse for him, maybe," Clewiston snorted, "but not for any hapless beasts he might victimize. Think about it, ma'am: you're kickin' him outta th' jolly Abbey 'cos of wot he might do if he gets his muzzle 'round anymore spirits, an' yet anybeast else he meets in Mossflower's gonna be exposed to th' same blinkin' risk. Not exactly responsible of us, wot?"

"The Colonel's right, Vanessa," said Alex. "If we release Broggen into Mossflower and he harms anybeast else, it'll be on our heads."

"Mebbe we could escort 'im to some quiet, outta-th'-way cove where he could live out 'is days without botherin' nobeast else," Monty suggested.

"I have made my decision," Vanessa stated firmly. "Broggen will not be executed. Broggen will not be imprisoned. And Broggen will not be harassed by any creature of Redwall once he leaves this Abbey. Alex, tell all your squirrels, Monty, tell all your otters, and Colonel, make sure all the Long Patrol get the word as well. Once Broggen leaves, he is to be left alone, and nobeast here is to interfere. Am I clear?"

One by one, Alex, Monty and Clewiston nodded. Arlyn and Hanchett looked on silently, one with compassion and the other from under dark brows. The Abbess turned back to the stoat.

"Broggen, I am afraid you will have to return to the cellar and spend one more night down there. I want to give you a morning sendoff, so that you will have an entire day to travel where you will while it is light out. I'll have Friar Hugh make you a provision sack that will last you for many days. And I'll see about getting you an extra shirt or two, since quality garments might be hard to come by out in the woods and plains. And, of course, you'll be given your javelin when you leave, along with any other weapons or tools of your choosing. Whatever we can provide you with to help you start your new life is yours for the asking."

"Thank you, Abbess," Broggen murmured, bobbing his head in gratitude.

"You're welcome. Monty, Alex, if you would please take Broggen back downstairs ... "

As the stoat was escorted out of the study, he stopped before Hanchett, who lounged against the back wall. Reaching into his tunic, Broggen produced the hare's dagger and gave it back to him. The otter and squirrel's eyes went wide.

"Thanks fer this, Hanch," Broggen said, "but I ain't takin' th' coward's way out, temptin' as that is. I made my own misfortune, an' I gotta face up t' that, miserable as it may make me. Now, you comin' or not?"

00000000000

Not a single Abbeybeast came out to see Fryc and his Northland shrews off. Two otters, standing their routine sentry duty, opened the main gates to let them pass, then slammed the doors shut on Fryc's squad as soon as they were all out on the road. The shrews had been given no extra food or drink from the Abbey larders and cellars, in a telling break from longstanding tradition. Vanessa felt they'd enjoyed all the Redwall hospitality to which they were entitled, given the circumstances.

Log-a-Log stood with Arlyn on the south walltop, watching Fryc and his comrades commence their march down the main path under the late afternoon sun. "Good riddance t' that rubbish!" the Guosim chieftain snorted.

"I would have thought you might be the only creatures in Redwall to commiserate with them," the retired Abbot said in mild surprise. "They are your fellow shrews, after all."

"Are you joshin' me, Abbot? Nasty, no-good shrews can be th' worst kind o' vermin, bad as any searat or slaver fox. Just look at that louse Snoga an' his rabble who've been challengin' me fer leadership o' th' Guosim. Hate t' say it, but I saw more'n a little of Snoga in that Fryc, an' in some o' th' other shrews who've been by Redwall this season. Surprised Lord Urthblood lets such ruffians in his ranks. Why, those rats 'n' weasels o' his we ran inta last summer was better behaved than these spikemice!"

"Do all the Guosim share your feelings about Urthblood's shrews?"

"Most of 'em feel even more strongly 'bout it than I do. Truth t' tell, Abbot, I was actshully layin' down th' law to my own shrews t' keep 'em in line. There was a few times I think we woulda started scrappin' an' fightin' right here in th' Abbey if I hadn'ta kept a lid on things. I mean, all shrews like t' argue, but that Northland lot're so pushy an' highfalutin' that they really got under our fur!"

"Really? I knew there had been some tension and disagreements among you, but I never realized it was so serious. Guess I've been spending too much of my time out in my gatehouse cottage to keep proper tabs on all the Cavern Hole gossip and intrigue."

"Yah, well, I figgered t'was important fer me t' keep th' peace 'tween us, an' not just fer th' sake of all you Redwallers. Lord Urthblood saved my son Pirkko from searats, an' I can't ferget that. So, I reckern I can force myself t' be civil to his shrews, even if they're not deservin' of that courtesy. Still, I don't know what's gonna happen if we meet up with 'em beyond th' confines of this Abbey. Not so easy t' control things out in th' wild."

"Maybe it would be wise to simply avoid them if you can," Arlyn suggested. "Did they give you any idea where they were heading? I would have thought they'd join the other shrews over at the quarry to help ferry the cut stone down to Foxguard, but they're not headed in that direction."

"Naw, they're makin' fer that iron searat ship that runs underwater. It's still moored right where Lord Urthblood captured it last summer. Our Toor otter friends've been watchin' over it durin' the cold season t' make sure no searats sneak back t' try 'n' reclaim it fer themselves, but looks like Urthblood plans t' make some kinda perm'nant encampment fer his shrews along th' riverbank there. All the shrews we've seen aimin' their snouts south are headed there, it seems."

"Indeed? That would make for quite a large community, given the numbers that we've seen coming by the Abbey since late winter."

"So I reckern. But, long as they all stay gathered t'gether in that one spot, we'll know right where they are, an' that'll make it easier t' steer clear of 'em."

"True, but don't forget all the ferry shrews of Urthblood's that are over on the River Moss helping to build Foxguard," Arlyn reminded Log-a-Log. "It seems you'll hit Urthblood's shrews whether you travel east or south."

"Still leaves two points on th' compass all fer us," said the shrew leader. "Lotsa good wanderin' to be had out on th' Western Plains ... mebbe we could even sniff out them Flitchy cannibals an' take care of 'em, save Lord Urthblood th' trouble. An' then there's always north - haven't been up that way in many a season, an' there's a whole lotta Mossflower above Redwall that's ripe fer explorin'. Who knows, mebbe we'll paddle all th' way out t' th' coastlands an' see if we can't lend that badger a paw 'gainst th' searats - sounds like he might be able t' use it, from what Browder an' those escaped slaves told us."

"That could be dangerous," Arlyn said with some concern. "This new searat weapon sounds most formidable ... and destructive."

"We're th' Guosim, Abbot! Ain't never been a scrape we couldn't fight our way outta! An' I figger, better t' be battlin' at that badger's side in an honest cause than tanglin' with 'is ornery, too-big-fer-their-britches shrews over their bad manners!"

"I suppose. I've never been the adventurous type myself, and I'm certainly no fighting beast! I'm sure you'll be able to handle whatever you find for yourselves. Any idea when you'll be leaving?"

Log-a-Log stared after the knot of Northland shrews diminishing in the distance. "Not fer another day, at least. I wanna give them troublemakers plenny o' time t' get well away from th' Abbey. Don't wanna chance runnin' inta them. They've given us all enuff grief fer th' season."

00000000000

Meanwhile, in another part of the Abbey, other guests were not waiting to make their departure.

Tolar and Roxroy stood outside the east gate under the long shadow of the wall, the budding fastness of Mossflower before them. Just enough of the leaf buds had opened to dispel the lingering gray bareness of winter from the tree limbs and lend the forest the fresh green essence of the young spring. The last rays of the lowering sun lit the treetops with an emerald glow, and the clear silverblue sky showed no trace of impending rain.

Unlike Fryc's shrews, the two swordfoxes were to receive a warm sendoff from the Redwallers. Vanessa, Geoff, Alex and Mina, Winokur and Monty were all there, along with Mona the healer vixen.

"I feel awkward leaving Redwall so soon after such a tragedy," Tolar said to Vanessa, "but I have tarried here as long as I may. I must return to the quarry before this season is another day older, for our work there nears completion, and I dare not delay further. Abbess, friends, again I must thank you for your hospitality, especially during this trying time. You went out of your way to make us feel welcome, and that means a great deal to me. If we can ever repay your hospitality once Foxguard is completed, we will happily do so."

"We'll keep that in mind," Vanessa responded. "It's a shame more of you couldn't have made it to Nameday ... although, given the way things turned out, perhaps it was for the best that there were just the two of you. But I don't want your fellows to get the idea that Redwall's hospitality is to be reserved for just you and Roxroy."

"Perhaps next Nameday, more of us will be able to make it, Abbess. All will depend upon how far along with Foxguard we are."

Winokur walked up to Roxroy. Ever since their mock duel by the orchard, the young otter and fox had shared a special connection, and Winokur had made himself available to commiserate with the swordfox cadet over the tragedy that had befallen the Abbey. Although it defied all logic, Roxroy somehow felt guilty about having been engaged in a military exercise at the time of Sister Aurelia's death, almost as if it had been inappropriate behavior and may even have contributed to the rowdy atmosphere which had led to the tragedy. Winokur had gone out of his way to assure his new friend that he had nothing to feel guilty about, and that it was quite common for otters and other Abbeybeasts to indulge in a little amiable sparring on festival days. Still, Roxroy was uneasy about the whole thing, and almost seemed to be more shaken by Aurelia's passing than some of the Redwallers themselves were.

"Hey," Winokur said to the young fox, playfully jabbing Roxroy in the shoulder, "you don't have to wait 'til next Nameday to visit again. I'd love to see you back here someday before summer. We never did finish that little match of ours," he added with a wink.

"Uh ... yeah. But you were very good. I don't think I could have bested you."

"Well, that was yesterday, Rox. I'll be sticking my snout back in the books after you leave, while you'll be back to full-time drilling and training. I'd be very surprised if you're not able to relieve me of my javelin the next time we get together."

Roxroy smiled at these encouraging words. "We'll just have to wait and see then, won't we?" He stuck out his paw. "I'm glad we got to meet each other, Wink."

"Me too." Winokur took the paw and shook it warmly. "Hope we can get together again pretty soon."

"And I owe you the full guided tour of Foxguard once it's finished. Then it'll be your turn to be our guest!"

"Look forward to it, Rox."

While the two younger beasts made their fond farewells, Mona was making her own to Tolar. "Send word as soon as Foxguard is ready for me to move into," the vixen said to the swordfox, "and I'll be there forthwith."

"You can be sure we will," Tolar assured her. "We will not go without our master healer for a day longer than we have to. But in the meantime, relax and enjoy all the amenities of Redwall. I'm sure the Abbess wouldn't have it any other way."

"Indeed not," Vanessa hastened to agree. "Especially since Mona has so graciously volunteered to place her healer's skills at our disposal for the duration of her stay with us. She will have the best of all things that we can provide for her."

"I shall be very interested in seeing Foxguard myself," said Mina. "When do you think it will be completed?"

"Andrus is still hoping for the first of summer, if all goes well and we meet no unforeseen delays."

"That's less than a season from now," Alex commented. "Is that realistic?"

"Well, Foxguard will be quite a bit smaller than Redwall," Tolar said. "And with so many moles on paw, working to Lord Urthblood's exacting designs, it should go up in very good time." He stepped back from the wall, raising his paw in farewell and beckoning for Roxroy to follow. "But now we must be off. I would like to reach the banks of the River Moss before it is full night, if I may. Again, my condolences on your loss, and my thanks for your kindnesses. I can tell that when Foxguard is finished, the ties between our two strongholds will be strong indeed. With our twin bastions standing watch over it, Mossflower will never fail!"

"On the matter o' strong ties," Monty said, spoiling the grand mood of Tolar's eloquent pronouncement, "wouldja mind leavin' our barge on our side o' th' Moss when yore done usin' it this time?"

The fox's smile faltered momentarily, then solidified again. "I'll tell our otters to make sure they do that. Farewell, friends!"

As Tolar and Roxroy disappeared into the woods, Vanessa turned to the otter Skipper. "That was rather inelegant of you, Monty."

"Mebbe so, Nessa. But I figgered it'd be as good a way as any fer our new neighbors t' prove just how neighborly they mean t' be."


	15. Chapter 44

Chapter Forty-Four

"I'm going with Broggen."

Cyril made this announcement as a statement of fact, underscored by an edge of determination that hinted at defiance. It was the kind of utterance that only a creature poised on the threshold between child and adult could make.

Vanessa and Geoff regarded the novice mouse with raised eyebrows. "Now, Cyril," the historian cautioned, "that's hardly the way to ask for your Abbess's permission ... "

"Geoff," Vanessa stopped him with an upraised paw, then returned her gaze to Cyril, seated before her desk in her study. Word had spread throughout the Abbey that Broggen's life would be spared, but that the stoat would be leaving Redwall the next morning - most likely for good. And so it was that after dinner Cyril had sought out the Abbess in her private quarters, where he found her chatting with her old friend Brother Geoff. "Let him continue."

Cyril swallowed, a little surprised that he hadn't met immediate resistance to his plan. "Well, last summer you stopped me from going with Broggen and Jans to Salamandastron, and I understand that decision now. Considering how badly things turned out there, I can see it would have been a disaster for me to've gone. And while I haven't totally given up on the idea of becoming a warrior, that has nothing to do with this. Last summer, I would have been a nuisance and a burden to seasoned fighters marching into war. But I want to go with Broggen now because I can help him."

"Help him how?" Vanessa probed.

"He's all alone now," Cyril went on. "He served as a soldier in Lord Urthblood's army for so many seasons, and most of that time he was chained to Jans as his constant companion. Then, after Jans was killed, Broggen came here, where he was surrounded by friends all the time. He's never been alone before, and ... well, I'm worried about him."

"Cyril, this beast killed Sister Aurelia," Geoff reminded the bellringer mouse. "Compared to some of the punishments he could have received for such an offense, I think he's getting off lightly if solitude is to be the only penance he must bear."

"Then again, Geoff," Vanessa countered, "to a goodhearted beast who is truly remorseful - as I believe Broggen to be - perhaps being made to live with the memory of what he's done will be a greater punishment than any we could have imposed."

"That's what I'm saying, Abbess!" Cyril brightened, seeing that somebeast else was able to identify with his point. "Broggen's gonna torture himself over this, probably for the rest of his life! He loved this Abbey, and this is going to be as hard for him as losing Jans was. Except that Redwall was the very thing that kept him going and gave him hope after Jans died, and now he's got to live all alone with the knowledge that he accidentally wounded the very place that took him in and gave him comfort and solace and support when he needed it most! It's gonna eat him up inside - you know it will! And I'm afraid of what he might do if he's left to himself ... "

"Yes," Geoff said sourly, "goodness knows, he might turn to drinking to drown his misery! And then he might grow violent again ... Frankly, Cyril, I think you've just made the best argument for the Abbess not allowing you to go with Broggen."

"No, not at all!" Cyril protested. "That's just it! If Broggen's left all alone, he'll have nobeast to watch over him, and keep him from doing things he shouldn't."

"So, you would be going as his ... guardian?" Vanessa seemed amused by this prospect.

"Jans was his guardian," Cyril replied. "I'd just be his friend."

"You don't know that he'll be all alone once he leaves Redwall," Geoff pointed out. "Mossflower is full of creatures, many of whom live by themselves or their families or in small communities throughout the woods and plains. And then there are all the wanderers who travel the lands in the warmer months. Broggen could very well end up making new friends all on his own, without you having to go with him."

"What if the creatures he meets are like Fryc?" Cyril challenged.

Geoff frowned. "Then, I'd say they deserve whatever they get, if they wind up with a drunken, violent stoat on their paws."

"They'd kill him!" Cyril cried. "And even if Broggen stays sober and steers clear of nastybeasts, how many woodlanders are going to give a stoat the benefit of the doubt long enough to get to know him? Not as many as if he's got a Redwall mouse with him, you can be sure of that!"

"Have you really thought this through, Cyril?" Vanessa asked. "Where you'll go, what you'll do ... "

"Did Martin the Warrior know precisely where he was going or what he was going to do when he came down from the Northlands before founding Redwall?"

"A good point ... although I should hope your own life turns out to be a good deal less adventurous than Martin's was - unless you plan to lead a war of liberation against a wildcat tyrant, journey to Salamandastron to fight searats, and found an Abbey of your own."

"A thorough recitation," Geoff complimented her on her knowledge of Martin's history. "Although don't forget his time as a slave, or his other war of liberation he fought at Marshank before he even came down to Mossflower."

"Or the loss of the one he loved most." Vanessa nodded. "I would not wish such a thing on anybeast. But back to the matter at paw. Cyril, I am almost tempted to grant you leave to do as you want, for a number of reasons. For one thing, you are two seasons older than you were when you tried to sneak off to Salamandastron with Jans and Broggen - "

"Almost three seasons older, Abbess," Cyril interjected.

Vanessa smiled. "Three, then. You've grown and filled out a fair bit since then - at a casual glance you could almost be taken for an adult now - and I know Sister Aurelia taught you some basic first aid and healing skills, and that you've also been practicing a little swordplay with the otters. There is no doubt that you might prove a valuable travelling companion to Broggen. More to the point, you would not be marching off to war, but merely accompanying a friend who might benefit greatly from your presence. You seek to lend sympathy and support to a creature in need, and that defines the very essence of Redwall."

Cyril straightened in his chair. "So, you'll let me go?"

"Yes. Yes, I will, Cyril. But you must prepare yourself for the possibility that Broggen will refuse your company. And if that is the case, you must not force yourself upon him. The final decision, therefore, must be his."

Cyril's eyes widened in surprise. "But, whyever would he do that? Refuse my offer to come with him?"

"You yourself just acknowledged how tormented he is over what he's done. Broggen bears a deep shame over what has happened, so much so that he may shun the company of all other creatures, at least for awhile. You would serve as a constant reminder of Redwall to him, and that might be the last thing he wants right now. Surely you will not want to go with Broggen if that would only increase his hurt?"

Cyril stared down at his lap. "I hadn't thought of that."

"I know you are only trying to be his friend, and I have great respect for that," said Vanessa. "The fact that you are willing to do this at all is as clear a demonstration of friendship as anybeast could want. If Broggen will accept you as his travelling companion, then you may go with him when he leaves here tomorrow."

"Thank you, Abbess! Thank you!"

"Don't thank me yet. The path you've chosen may be fraught with hardships. Once you venture well beyond the security of these walls, it is impossible to predict what may happen. You will need to be prepared as much as you can for every eventuality, and such preparation takes time. You must go discuss this with Broggen right away, and if he gives you the answer you want, then we will need to make ready for sending off two beasts tomorrow, not just one. Some of the brothers and sisters may have already started getting ready to turn in for the night, but I'm sure I can snag a few of our night owls to help with this. Go now, Cyril, and I will wait here until you can get back to me about what Broggen has to say."

"Yes, Abbess! I'll be right back!" Cyril bolted from his chair, almost tripping over Geoff's footpaws and his own tail in his haste to carry out the Abbess's bidding.

Vanessa smiled after the novice mouse was gone. "I suspect his talk with Broggen will take longer than he supposes. But the night is still young. I can wait."

Geoff looked to her with concern in his eyes. Cyril and Cyrus were two of his prize students, and he hated the idea of one of them wandering off with no clear plan or destination in mind, alongside a beast who'd proven he was capable of taking an innocent life. "Are you sure this is the right thing, Vanessa?"

"As sure as I can be about any such uncertain proposition. But what happened with Sister Aurelia only proves that terrible things can happen here just as easily as anywhere else."

"Not just as easily," Geoff snorted. "And you're allowing an inexperienced novice to journey abroad with the very beast responsible for our recent loss."

"Partly responsible," Vanessa quickly corrected. "And the crux of the matter is that Broggen knows it, and is remorseful beyond words. In all honesty, I have fewer qualms about Cyril leaving with that stoat than I would with somebeast like Fryc, who probably wouldn't care one way or the other whether harm befell a Redwaller under his care. But all that really matters here is that Cyril is acting out of a sense of friendship that has not been shaken even by Aurelia's tragic death. I suspect he would go with Broggen even were I to withhold my permission ... and he is getting to the age where he will have the freedom to come and go as he pleases, or even to leave the Redwall order if he so chooses. Trying to stop him would most likely cause more trouble than it would prevent, so I figured I would just give him the go ahead and see what comes of it."

"And if we end up losing Cyril? If he takes to a life of wandering for the rest of his days, feeling he must stick by Broggen's side henceforth?"

"Then Broggen will have gained a valuable friend. If that stoat will take Cyril as his travelling companion, then I think they might turn out to be very good for each other." Vanessa shrugged. "It's all in Broggen's paws now."

00000000000

Broggen studied Cyril with an equal mix of gratitude and misgiving. "Are y' abserlutely sure y' wanna do this, Cyr?"

The young mouse returned the larger creature's gaze with one of uncertain enthusiasm. "Well, it's too late for me to change my mind now, after all the work the brothers and sisters have put in to get us both travel ready. Yes, Broggen, I'm sure."

Mouse and stoat stood outside Redwall's main gate in the dirt road that ran past the Abbey. The rising sun had cleared the treetops and the wall, and the two travel companions basked in the warm radiance of the spring morning. Many of the Abbeydwellers had turned out to see the duo off on their uncharted journey, and while the overall mood was a somber one, it was not entirely the atmosphere of sending a condemned beast away into exile. Even those who were glad to see Broggen go, and might not have bothered to come out for the stoat's behalf, did want to wish Cyril well. As such, the whole environment outside the gate and up on the walltop that morning was an awkward combination of coolness and sincere good tidings.

Abbess Vanessa, Abbot Arlyn and Brother Geoff came out into the road to bid the pair farewell. Cyrus was there too, of course, as was Smallert. Montybank also joined the small gathering, since he had felt a close kinship to both Broggen and Smallert ever since they'd been made honorary otters at the previous autumn's Nameday.

Cyril and Broggen both shouldered packs filled with food, drink, bedding, extra clothes and a few other supplies. Broggen held his javelin in one paw, while various knives and tools hung from his belt. Cyril had traded his green novice's habit for a simple rust-brown shirt that wouldn't tangle or get snagged if he had to make his way through low branches or underbrush. The young mouse had declined Monty's offer of the sword of Martin for his journeys, opting instead for a shortsword presented to him by Log-a-Log; the smaller weapon, halfway between a dagger and a full-length sword from his size viewpoint, was perfect for his inexperienced paws. Cyril also carried a bow and quiver of arrows, donated by Alexander's squirrels.

Cyrus looked his brother over from top to bottom. "It's weird, Cyr, seeing you dressed in that instead of your habit."

"It feels a little weird, Cy," Cyril admitted, shrugging his shoulders inside the tunic that he'd been presented by one of the Abbey's smaller female squirrels, which meant it still hung a bit loose on him. "I'm so used to having my legs and tail covered, I feel half-naked! But this manner of garb is good enough for most woodlanders who live outside Redwall, and we're moving into the warmer seasons, so that should help. My habit robes just would have gotten in the way too much. Travelling beasts have to dress practically, you know." He shrugged again. "I just wish they could have found me a shirt that fit a little better."

"Aw, I think it looks good on ya, Master Cyril," Smallert said from alongside Cyrus. "Makes ya look like a true warrior! You'll grow inta it, just you see!"

Cyril glanced down at his feet. "I'm still torn between wearing my sandals or going barepawed. Broggen says sandals are a sure recipe for blisters on long marches, but he also thinks my footpaws aren't calloused enough to take wandering the lands unshod."

The white stoat nodded knowingly. "Aye, you Abbeymice've got soft feet, there's no denyin' that. Jansy, his soles were hard 'n' thick as planks from all his seasons o' marchin' with Lord Urthblood."

Cyril shuffled his sandals in the dusty road, sending up faint tan puffs from under his footpaws. "Something tells me I'll regret wearing them, but I already feel strange enough without my habit, and I don't wanna leave them behind in case I do need them ... "

Montybank stepped forward. "Where'll you two be headed?"

Cyril and Broggen traded a quizzical glance. "Dunno," the stoat finally replied.

"Then it don't matter how long it takes you t' get there, now does it?" the otter skipper said with a grin. "Broggs, there's no reason y' hafta go runnin' from here fast as y' can. Take yore time, stick around our neck o' th' woods fer awhile if y' want, an' don't go runnin' our Cyril here ragged. Who knows? You could end up settlin' down a stone's throw away from our Abbey!"

"Could he?" Cyril asked hopefully.

"Abbess only asked Broggs t' leave Redwall. She never said where he could an' couldn't go once he did. Ain't that right, Nessa?"

"Yes, Monty, that's correct. Although I suspect Broggen will want to explore a good deal of Mossflower before he decides where he'll be making his new home ... that's if he settles down at all, and doesn't spend the rest of his days as a wanderer. But, yes, Cyril, I think you should take your sandals with you. You can always slip them off if they become uncomfortable or you decide you don't need them, but at least you'll have them with you if you hit rough terrain. As Monty says, there's no need for you to cover any given amount of ground each day, or to journey from dawn 'til dusk, so go at your own pace and go easy on yourselves, and you should be able to avoid blisters even if you wear your sandals."

"At least you have a beautiful day to be on your way," Arlyn observed, glancing up at the cloudless sky of blue.

"When do you think we might be seeing you here again?" Geoff asked, aiming his question squarely at Cyril and pointedly excluding the stoat.

Cyril shrugged. "Whenever we find ourselves this way, I guess. Or when Broggen doesn't need me anymore. I'm not going to leave him on his own as long as he needs a friend at his side."

Broggen smiled down at Cyril, clearly grateful, but held his silence.

Smallert knelt on one knee before the departing mouse and laid both his paws on Cyril's shoulders. "I want you t' promise me one thing, Master Cyril ... "

"Yes?"

"If'n this stoat 'ere ever gets 'imself drunk again an' looks t' be gettin' violent, I want you ta run clear away from 'im. All th' way back here t' Redwall if you gotta, no matter where y' happen t' be when it happens. No matter whether it looks like he might harm 'imself, or mebbe others, you jus' take care fer yerself. Y' hear me?"

Cyril shook his head. "I can't make that promise, Smallert. I'm going with Broggen to help keep him out of that kind of trouble. What kind of friend would I be if I ran away when he needed me most? And I'm certainly not going to leave him in a situation where he might hurt other goodbeasts. I'm a Redwaller, Smallert. I've got to act like one."

The weasel considered these words, then patted Cyril's shoulder. "Ye're a bigger beast than me, even if you are only half me size. I never could be so forgivin' of a beast who's got blood on its paws ... "

"It was a mistake," Cyril said. "We all make mistakes, and now Broggen's paying for it. None of this ever would've happened if it hadn't been for that mean old shrew and his cruel practical joke he played on Broggs. But it's done now, and we have to make the best of things. And that's why I'm doing this. To go where I can do the most good."

"Well, good luck to ye then." Smallert stood and stepped back.

Cyrus stuck out his paw toward his brother. "Guess this means Mother Maura's stuck with helping me ring the bells again, huh?" The younger mouse grinned lopsidedly.

Cyril took his brother's paw and shook it in a firm clasp. The two of them had talked long into the night about what Cyril planned to do, and although Cyrus had at first been distressed at Cyril's announcement, in the end he'd come to understand his older sibling's motivations and accept them. Of all the residents of Redwall, Cyrus would be most directly affected by Cyril's departure, and Cyril had wanted to make absolutely certain to leave on the best of terms with his only blood relative.

Cyril grinned back. "Yeah, just watch her to make sure she doesn't sound the war alarm again when there's a storm coming!"

They released paws, but stood looking at each other. "Y' know, it just occurred to me," Cyril said, "you're as old as I was last summer when I tried to leave with Lord Urthblood's army for Salamandastron."

"I wasn't ready to lose you back then," said Cyrus. "Least not to go to war, anyway. But this's a good thing you're doing, Cyr. I don't feel the same need to go wandering that you do, but if it were Smallert being made to leave instead of Broggs, I'd wanna do the same thing you are."

Then, as was perhaps inevitable, the two mouse brothers fell into a tight embrace of farewell - not slapping each other on the back, or shedding tears of emotion, for their relationship had never been like that, but merely holding each other close in a shared moment of the truest brotherhood. Nobeast dared speak or interrupt.

"You take care, Cy."

"You too, Cyr. And take good care of Broggs, too. I'd feel sad if anything happened to him."

"Then tell him yourself - he's standing right here!"

Cyrus disengaged from his brother and turned to the stoat, who knelt down on one knee, as Smallert had done, to face the younger mouse brother. Cyrus didn't hesitate to give Broggen a supportive hug.

"I'm gonna miss you, Broggs. You're no murderer, and don't you listen to anybeast who says you are!"

"Thank's, li'l matey. I'll miss you too. Part o' me doesn't want Cyril leavin' this nice place an' sloggin' along wi' me on my account, but another part o' me - a big part - sure is glad he's comin'. I'd never ask him t' leave th' comfort 'n' safety of his home here, but t'was his idea, an' I don't think I coulda talked him outta it if'n I tried. I'll take care that naught happens to 'im, so that you'll see 'im troopin' his way back t' Redwall some season soon. That I promise!"

"Well," Vanessa declared, "it sounds like you two will be so busy taking care of each other, you'll hardly have time for anything else! But always remember, Broggen, this Abbey is not closed to you in time of need. If you should ever fall sick or suffer injury, we will have a bed in our Infirmary for you. If enemies should ever threaten you harm, you may seek sanctuary behind our walls. And if you should ever require replenishment of your supplies of food and drink, or clothing, or tools or weapons, or any other help and materials we may provide, do not hesitate to call upon us. You may no longer be able to dwell at Redwall, but that does not mean you will not always be, at least in part, a Redwaller."

For the first time since these farewells had begun, Broggen was forced to paw away a tear from the corner of his eye. "Aw, thank ye, marm, an' I'll allers remember yer kindness. But I reckern it's best fer ev'rybeast if'n I crawl away inta some remote corner o' Mossflower where nobeast'll ever come 'cross me again, or mebbe if I leave these lands alt'gether fer a life o' wanderin' far from decent folk. Mebbe you don't think I'm a muderer, ma'am, but there's some here who'd beg t' differ, an' I'm half-'nclined to agree with 'em. Much as I love this place an' all you creatures who live 'ere, much as I will allers cherish th' two seasons I got t' live here as one o' you, an' as readily as I'd lay down my life in defense o' this Abbey ... truth is, Redwall's become a painful place fer me now. What I did here will ferevermore be a black spot on me soul, an' th' memory o' Sister Aurelia will haunt me to me dyin' day. I don't think you'll be seein' me at yer gates anytime ever again, if'n I can help it."

Vanessa nodded. "I understand, and I thought you might feel that way, but I had to make sure you knew our hospitality and aid are still yours for the asking should the need for such ever arise. You and Cyril are carrying enough provisions to last you most of a season, if you can find a steady source of drinking water. Go where you will, and may fortune smile upon you."

"Thank you, ma'am." Broggen gave an appreciative nod.

"Thank you, Abbess," Cyril seconded, then turned to the stoat. "Well, Broggs, looks like that's our cue to be on our way. But which way will it be? North, south, east or west?"

Broggen considered. "Well, I lived up north fer most o' my seasons, an' it's too harsh fer my likin', now that I've gotten a taste o' Mossflower livin'. East we got them foxes, an' I don't think they'll be any happier havin' me in their neighborhood than most Redwallers would - 'specially since two of 'em witnessed what I done. An' if we go west, we'd like run inta Lord Urthblood's main forces ... an' if that badger catches wind that an innocent Redwaller died by my paw, be it accident or no, he'd most prob'ly have me put to death, even tho' I'm retired from his army."

"So, south then?" Cyril prompted.

"Aye - " Broggen bobbed his head, " - south tis!"

As they bid their final farewells to Vanessa, Arlyn, Geoff, Montybank, Smallert and Cyrus and then started south along the path, Cyril waved at all the well-wishers lined up along the walltop. The Abbeybeasts making their goodbyes from the ramparts greatly outnumbered those who had come out into the road, and while Broggen looked up at them too, he did not join Cyril in waving to them.

"Reminds me a little o' when I first came here after Jans died," he said sadly, "an' you 'n' Cyrus 'n' Smalley was all cheerin' me on from up there. Nobeast cheerin' fer me t'day. But still, it's nice of 'em to turn out fer your sake. Hope it's not too long 'fore you get t' see yer home again, Cyril lad."

"It'll be ... as long as it takes," Cryil said, placing a reassuring paw on the small of Broggen's back below the heavy travel pack, "and not a moment sooner. I'm with you Broggs. I'm with you all the way."

And so they made their way from under the Abbey wall to the open, unprotected road, headed south beneath the bright spring sunshine for whatever they might find and whatever might find them.


	16. Chapter 45

Chapter Forty-Five

Cyril and Broggen took Monty's advice and, for the sake of their footpaws and leg muscles, struck a leisurely pace for themselves. The end of their first day's journeying saw them stopping at the site of old Saint Ninian's church, now just a few charred timbers lying atop a blackened stone foundation. The fine weather looked to be holding, so they decided to sleep out in the open meadow adjoining the church ruins.

The young mouse gazed at the structural remnants as he and Broggen sat on their blankets in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, nibbling at their early supper. "You know, I think this is as far as I've ever been from Redwall," he ruminated around a cheekful of apple scone.

"I 'member stoppin' 'ere fer lunch an' rest break when we were on our way t' Salamandastron last summer. Ain't this th' place Cap'n Grayfoot's gonna be buildin' his tavern?"

"I think so. This spot must have stuck in Lord Urthblood's mind when he came by here. It'll be strange, having something else standing on this site after so many seasons. Saint Ninian's burned down in the time of Abbess Tansy, I think, and that was many generations ago."

"Well, one thing's fer sure," said Broggen. "If this place is gonna be a saloon, servin' spirits, I daresn't settle down anywhere near here."

Cyril leaned forward, massaging his calves and the backs of his thighs. "Do you think you'll settle down anywhere, Broggs? I'm up for a life of wandering if you are. We'd just have to take it slow at first, like we did today, until my legs get used to so much walking." Even though they'd left Redwall well past sunrise, Cyril was painfully aware that it had taken most of a day to cover the distance that Urthblood's marching army had covered in a single morning ... and in spite of this, Cyril's muscles still tingled from the strain of so much unaccustomed exertion.

"We'll just hafta see what there is t' be seen, Cyril lad. I'm all fer settlin' down if I c'n find a place that strikes me fancy. But I got a partic'lar neck o' Mossflower in mind, an' it'll take a few days yet fer us t' reach it."

"I thought you didn't know Mossflower very well?"

"Oh, I got an eyeful of some good stretches of it when we passed through summer last," Broggen assured his mouse companion. "Not much else t' do on a long march 'cept watch where ye're goin' ... an' Lord Urthblood allers taught us t' be on th' lookout fer any sign o' enemies who might be lurkin' in ambush an' such. 'Sides, there's some landmarks that really stand out, even if ye're only payin' half-attention."

"Well, I'm with you for as long as it takes, and for however far we have to travel," Cyril reassured the stoat. "I know I'm just a sheltered Abbeymouse, without your experience in soldiering or living off the land, but I'll try not to be too much of a burden. I'll always watch your back, and lend a paw when you need one, and I'm pretty fast at picking things up. You won't be sorry I came along, you'll see!"

"Aw, Cyril lad, you ain't a burden," Broggen soothed the overeager youngster, "an' I'm already mighty glad ye're along on this trek with me. When y' first told me you wanted t' come, I didn't want you to. I was so filled with shame, I only wanted t' slink off an' hide somewheres where no decent folk would ever hafta set eyes on me again, an' I sure didn't want you abandonin' yer fine home an' leavin' behind Cyrus 'n' all yer friends on my account. But you were so set on doin' this, an' I could see I weren't gonna talk you outta it. An', truth t' tell, th' more I thought on it, th' gladder I was t' have you by my side. I'm a miserable wretch of a stoat, an' I didn't feel much like carryin' on with life after th' Abbess told me 'bout Sister Aurelia. But she ordered me not t' harm m'self, an' if she still saw enuff in me t' do that, then I'll not dishonor m'self furtherwise by goin' 'gainst her. So, if I gotta keep on in this world, I'd rather it be with a friend like you at my side than all on me own. At least fer now, anyways, until I get things sorted out in me head a bit more clearly."

"Something tells me some of the creatures at Redwall didn't take the Abbess's decision as well as you did," said Cyril. "Lady Mina and some of the Long Patrols in particular. The Abbess ordered them not to harass you once you left the Abbey, but I'm not entirely sure they can be trusted not to disobey. That's another reason I wanted to come with you; I figured they'd be less likely to bother you if I was along."

Broggen gave Cyril a long gaze as the stoat chewed at his yellow cheese. "You really reckern I'm worth yer trouble, even after I took a life?"

"Why, sure you are! You didn't mean to kill anybeast, and of course you feel terrible about it, but that's only because you're a decent beast of good conscience. If it had been me who killed one of my fellow Redwallers by accident, I'd feel just as awful even if I didn't do it on purpose, and I'd probably feel like I wouldn't be able to look anybeast in the eye for a season. But I'd know I was surrounded by friends who would be there for me and help me through my dark time. I know you're no murderer, Broggen, and even if there are some back at the Abbey who call you that ... well, that makes it all the more important for you to have somebeast like me in your corner, doesn't it?"

"Yah, I guess. It's just ... well, how can I ever be sure I didn't mean t' slay Sister Aurelia?"

"Broggs! What are you saying?"

"Well, I can't fer th' life o' me remember what was goin' thru me noggin at th' moment I pushed her, an' she did wallop me backside with that rolling pin a day or two afore that. What if th' nasty drunk side o' me was 'memberin' her unkindness, an' wanted t' get back at her? What if, deep down, I really did wanna hurt her? Then it wouldn't be an accident t'all. I really would be a murderer ... "

"Broggen, no! Don't say that! You're the kindest, gentlest, most good-natured stoat there could ever be! You never would've hurt Sister Aurelia when you were sober. It's that nasty shrew Fryc's fault for getting you drunk in the first pace! The Abbess knows this - that's why she ordered Fryc out of Redwall and told him never to come back. She was harder on him than she was on you, and that's because she realizes he's really the one who's most responsible for all this. Fryc's squad wasn't even given any extra supplies, and he certainly wouldn't be welcomed back at the Abbey the way you would."

"Yeah, I s'pose ... " Broggen shrugged. "Still, I'll allers hafta wonder ... "

Cyril started packing away his food for the night. "Skipper Montybank called you a nasty drunk, Broggen ... which means you only get nasty when you get drunk." He hefted aside the heavy backpack and unbuckled the shrew shortsword from his belt, placing the scabbard alongside his bedroll within easy reach in case he needed it during the night. "So, we'll just have to make sure you don't get drunk again, right?"

"Um, yeah, I guess so ... "

"And that's what I'm here for!" Cyril grinned. "Long as I'm looking over your shoulder, I'll make sure no more spirits pass your lips, and that you never raise a paw in anger to any innocent goodbeast ever again!"

Broggen smiled, his mood lifted by the mouse's upbeat attitude. "You don't know how much that means t' me, Cyril. Thanks, more'n I can say."

"Hey, that's what friends are for, right?" Cyril stood and stretched his mildly aching muscles. "What do you say we get a little archery practice in before the sun goes all the way down? I'm pretty much all pawthumbs when it comes to bow and arrow, and since we brought them with us, we might as well learn how to use them ... "

"Makes sense." Broggen finished off his slice of nutbread, licked his whiskers and pawtips clean, and climbed to his feet. Scanning the surrounding meadow with paw to brow, he murmured, "Now, what would make a good target ... ?"

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Their first night away from the Abbey passed without incident. If anybeast happened by between dusk and dawn and even noticed the two of them bedded down amidst the tall grasses, they thought better of disturbing the heavily-armed duo.

Cyril, excited at being on the road, was awake with the new day's first light, up and about as the birdfolk commenced their cheerful morning serenade and the hidden sun's glow lent a rosy tinge to the gray skies above the treetops to the east. A few vague aches and muscle twinges in his legs, back and shoulders were the only reminders of the previous day's march, and after working out the worst of the kinks with the kinds of massages and stretches he'd often seen Redwall's otters and the Long Patrol doing, these minor pains became barely a memory. He felt confident that he would be able to cover at least as much distance as they had yesterday, as long as they kept their pace moderate and took frequent rest breaks.

Cyril let Broggen sleep later, although the stoat was still up before the sun. The larger beast shook himself thoroughly before pulling on his tunic, sending a cloud of white fur strands flying, and then, after a breakfast of honey raisin biscuits, shook out his bedroll, instigating yet another flurry of his ermine-white hair. Broggen had lost nearly half his winter coat, which left the ingrowing light brown fur visible through the thinning white pelt all over his body. In a matter of days the molt would be complete, Broggen's snowy physique replaced by his earthen summer colors.

"What say you, Cyril?" he asked the young mouse. "Y' wanna rest some more, or get a head start on today's march?" They'd finished cleaning up after their morning meal, and all their belongings lay packed and travel-ready.

"Well, we're not going anywhere just sitting here," Cyril replied, stating the obvious. "I got a good night's sleep, so I'm as ready to be on our way as I'll ever be."

"Okee." They shrugged into their backpacks, strapped on their weapons, took up whatever they had to carry and were back on the road by the time the sun broke over the eastern horizon of Mossflower.

Nature had blessed them with another perfect day for walking, the spring sunshine taking the edge off the morning chill and warming the travellers with its rejuvenating rays. By midmorning the constant sun and the steady pace began to tell on the pair - Cyril moreso than Broggen - and it was agreed that they would take a short roadside rest, and perhaps a nibble and a swallow to replenish their energy.

The next leg of their day's stroll took them into the thick of southern Mossflower. Here the forest crowded the path on both sides, obliterating all traces of the Western Plains to their right. Only the sun's high position in the sky kept them from being enshrouded by treeshadows. It was during this part of their journey that they encountered some of their first woodlanders - a squirrel and two mice, each travelling separately. The goodbeasts would regard Broggen warily, even though he was in the company of a mouse, until Cyril explained that they were from Redwall.

"Even ... him?" they would invariably ask with a half-nod in Broggen's direction, at which point Cyril assured them that his stoat friend had dwelt at the Abbey for the past two seasons and was a decent and honest creature through and through. Broggen would hold his silence, confirming Cyril's version of events with any combination of a smile, wave, nod or a tip of his beret. Then they would part company with the strangers, each going on their way once more.

Fortunately, they had yet to meet any vermin, singly or in groups, and with any luck they wouldn't. They were, however, still in the neck of Mossflower patrolled by Alexander's squirrels and Highwing's Sparra, and then there were all of Urthblood's troops somewhere to the northeast. As Cyril and Broggen penetrated farther into the untamed wilds of south Mossflower, they would have to remain vigilant for troublesome beasts.

Cyril called a halt to the morning's march before the sun had yet reached its noontide zenith. Finding a log in the roadside shade, the young mouse sat himself down and struggled out of his pack for the second time that day.

"Whew! Who would've guessed it could get so hot in early spring!"

"Oh, it prob'ly ain't any hotter t'day than it has been," Broggen said, settling onto the natural bench alongside Cyril. "Just feels like it when ye're marchin' out in th' sun from daybreak on. We got a real early start this morn. Anytime you wanna stop fer th' day's fine by me."

Cyril shook his head, reluctant to admit even to himself that he might be holding Broggen back from making better time. "It's not my legs or footpaws so much as my back and shoulders. I didn't know it was possible to pack a knapsack so heavy!"

"Mostly food 'n' drink that weighs so," Broggen observed. "It'll lighten up as we go along, tho' not too quick, I hope, since it's gotta last us fer awhile. Mebbe you'd wanna try carryin' it a spell when we get movin' again? Shift th' burden from yer back to yer arms. But we'll rest here fer lunch long as y' need, Cyril. 'Member what th' Skipper said: If we ain't 'xactly sure where we're a-goin', then it don't matter how long it takes us t' get there, does it?"

"Guess not." Cyril shrugged, and the gesture reminded him of how sore his shoulders had gotten between yesterday and today.

"Well, then, let's see 'bout lightenin' our loads a little more, huh?" The stoat grinned cheerfully, slipping out of his own pack and setting it aside as he dug into Cyril's. "So, whaddya feel like havin' fer lunch t'day?"

00000000000

When they finally resumed their journeying - well past noontide - Cyril took Broggen's advice and tried carrying his backpack for awhile instead of wearing it. But the oversized haversack was awkward to bear in such a manner, and Cyril didn't like the idea of having no free paw to draw his blade if trouble should rear its head. It also forced Broggen to carry both his javelin and the bow, leaving the stoat without a free paw either. By midafternoon Cyril had hunched his way back into his pack, and the tired mouse was calling it a day well before evening proper had rolled around.

Although the sun still hung well above the western horizon, Cyril and Broggen stood in the deep gloom of the shadows cast by the thick forest that grew up to the very edge of the road. Only the bright sheen of the utmost treetops, catching the last rays of the day in a blaze of green fire, told them it was not already past sundown. They had entered a more forbidding section of Mossflower than the friendly woodlands right around Redwall, the deep fastness almost oppressive as it loomed over them on both sides. Here, it was easy to believe that danger might lurk behind any treetrunk.

They left the road and, while Cyril rested beneath the cover of some brambles, Broggen scouted the area to make sure no potential enemies lurked close to paw. He crossed paths with a pair of patrolling squirrels and, after convincing these local beasts he was friendly and not part of any horde or villainous band, persuaded them to disclose that he was the only verminesque creature they'd observed in these parts for many days. Even better, when he told them he was travelling with a Redwall mouse, they directed him to a sheltered hollow where he and Cyril could bed down in relative comfort. Broggen got the impression the tree-dwellers only showed him to this hideaway so that they might know right where the stoat would be spending the night, but since Broggen didn't plan on causing the squirrels any trouble, he didn't care one way or the other whether they kept him under surveillance. Inspecting the shrubbery-draped hollow and deeming it satisfactory, Broggen headed back toward the road to fetch Cyril.

The young mouse was relieved to be off his feet and out of his pack for the night, and appreciated the early dinner and bedtime within their sheltered, mossy grotto. What he didn't appreciate was the rain that woke him up halfway toward midnight. Even though their obscuring cover of branches would shield them from unfriendly eyes, this rain was heavy and steady enough to drip down through their natural umbrella. And the rain gave no sign of slackening.

Broggen was soon awake too. "Ungh! Nothin' I hate more'n a soggy bed! 'Ceptin' mebbe soggy provisions. Here' gimme a paw, Cyril ... "

The stoat dug into one compartment of his pack and produced a silk tenting that he'd brought along for such occasions. Working together, he and Cyril quickly had the fabric draped over the branches and tied down at the edges so that it wouldn't blow away. The large sheet covered enough of an area so that the two Redwallers could huddle beneath it along with their packs and stay dry. The fine material repelled the water, gathering it into rivulets that ran down over the sides of the shelter and away from Cyril and Broggen.

Cyril was less than enchanted by this arrangement. Not only were his back and shoulder muscles still protesting the previous day's labors, but now he had no room to stretch out to sleep, unless he wanted to get wet feet and tail, or head, or both. He moaned his displeasure.

"Maybe the life of a wanderer isn't for me after all."

00000000000

The rain ended sometime after midnight. Cyril, leaning against Broggen for support with his knees drawn up to his chest, had dozed in fits and snatches, but could not fall truly asleep while sitting up. When he realized the constant patter of raindrops on the spring foliage all around had finally ceased, Cyril unrolled his bedding on the wet moss once more and lay down to sleep away what remained of the night.

Broggen sniffed deeply at the air a few times, then laid out his own bedroll. "Reckon it's stopped fer th' night. I'm gonna keep th' tentin' up, tho', just in case we do get anymore rain afore mornin'."

"Whatever you think's best," Cyril mumbled into his arm, willing himself toward dreamland.

As the stoat was getting ready to lie down, a rustling shook the bushes at their feet, and one of the squirrels who'd directed them to this spot stuck his head through the branches.

"Just thought you'd wanna know," he hissed in a whisper, "we've spied a gang of foxes movin' this way. Half a dozen or thereabouts, an' when those beasts band t'gether in those numbers, you can be sure they're up to no good!"

"Was they wearin' black uniforms an' bearin' broadswords, by any chance?" Broggen asked, wondering whether some of Urthblood's swordfoxes might have journeyed down this way for some reason. "'Cos if'n they are, they don't mean no harm."

"They looked to be carryin' all manner of weapons," the squirrel answered tersely. "As for their garb, I really couldn't say - it is night, after all. Their clothes were dark, but I don't know if they were black, or anything that could be called uniforms. They seemed more ragtag than what you're describin', though we didn't stick around long enough to do a thorough study. Anyway, just figured you two would want a heads-up. If you lay low here they'll probably pass you by without even realizin' you're here, but they could always stumble upon you by accident. If you wanna move, though, you better be quick about it - they were headed in this direction, an' they'll be here soon."

"We'll stay put," Broggen decided. "Like as not t' run right inta 'em if'n we go runnin' 'round in th' forest at night."

"An' if they find you?"

"I'm an old paw at soldierin'," Broggen replied, "an' Cyril here can handle a blade halfway decent. If their intentions ain't honest, we'll make 'em regret troublin' us."

"Ah." The squirrel sounded unconvinced. "Well, we'll be keepin' our eyes on 'em. If you're discovered, just give a shout, an' we won't be far." And with that, he vanished back into the wet night with nary a rustle to betray his passage.

Cyril was wide awake now. "You don't suppose Tolar could have sent some of his foxes after you? For what happened to Sister Aurelia?"

Broggen shrugged. "Reckon it's possible. Pity I didn't think t' ask that treedog which direction they was comin' from. But even th' most skilled trackerbeast would have its work cut out fer 'em on a night like this, with no moon or stars an' th' rain dampin' everything down. I wager we'll be safe here, no matter who them foxes are. Now, you lay down an' grab some shuteye, Cyril, an' I'll take first watch."

"Are you sure, Broggen? Maybe it would be better if we both stayed awake. You know, in case anything happens ... "

The stoat could clearly hear the drowsiness in his young companion's voice. "Tell ya what. You just lay out all nice an' comfortable, an' you can help me keep watch from there. You been sittin' up most o' th' night, an' yer muscles must be protestin' sumpthin' awful from not lyin' down ... "

"Well, kinda ... "

"Then stretch out on yer bedroll there an' get them kinks worked out. Oh, an' no more talkin', neither. Them foxes could be 'pon us at any moment, an' they might be able t' hear us even if we're whisp'rin'."

"Okay. I'll just lie here and be quiet then, ready to lend a paw if you need it ... "

Broggen's ruse worked perfectly. Before long, he heard Cyril's breathing settle into the deep and steady pattern of sleep. As alone as he could be with a creature right beside him, the stoat turned to face out from their low, makeshift shelter and commence his nighttime vigil.

00000000000

If the foxes ever ventured near their hideout during the night, Broggen never heard them.

The squirrel returned at dawn, just as Cyril was waking up. "No problems here?"

"Nay," Broggen told him. "I sat up all night so my pal 'ere could sleep, an' nobeast got near 'nuff t' bother us."

"You weren't the only one sittin' up 'til daybreak," the squirrel said. "We had eyes on those foxes every step of their way. They passed just to the south of here, so we didn't think they'd troubled you, but we wanted to make sure."

"Where're they now?" Cyril asked, pawing the sleep from his eyes and stifling a yawn. In the gray light of dawn, this squirrel was revealed to be a formidable malebeast clad in a neat, utilitarian jerkin and armed with an impressive assortment of throwing knives. He was probably every bit the warrior that Broggen was, and may even have been the head of his clan. Cyril certainly didn't want to come across as a wide-eyed, wet-behind-the-ears, sheltered Abbey novice in his presence.

"Dunno, son. Those vermints crossed the road while it was still full dark, an' that's out of our territory. Let's hope they're far from here an' headed farther as we speak, but we'll keep a sharp eye out just in case they double back this way again."

"Well, at least we know they're out there, thanks t' you," Broggen said. "Much obliged."

"You two gonna be movin' on right away?"

"Actshully, since I stayed up all night, I might nap fer an hour or two 'fore we get underway an' let Cyril take th' watch. Mebbe give them foxes a little extra time t' put more distance 'tween us 'n' them."

"Sounds sensible to me." The squirrel seemed about to sprint away again, then grudgingly extended a paw to the stoat. "Deltus, chieftain of Tribe Barrenoak."

"Broggen Erminestoat, retired infantry fighter fer Lord Urthblood o' Salamandastron. Pleased t' make yer acquainternce." The two shook paws. "An' this 'ere's Cyril, novice mouse o' th' Redwall order an' warrior-in-trainin'."

Cyril was glad Broggen had added that last part, so that Deltus might be inclined to take him at least a little seriously. But the mouse's paw was small and soft in the squirrel's hard clasp when they shook, and Cyril realized how much like a child he must still look to somebeast like Deltus.

"A warrior-in-trainin', huh?" The brawny squirrel took Cyril's measure. "A bit on the young an' slight side yet, but I've known some fearsome spirits that came packaged small. So, what's your weapon of choice, Cyril of Redwall?"

"We was practicin' some arch'ry eve before last," Broggen answered on Cyril's behalf, "an' he weren't doin' too bad at it. But I daresay this one's destined t' be a bladebeast, more'n likely."

Deltus's gaze went to Broggen's weapon, stuck point-first into the mossy ground. "I see you favor an otter-style javelin, friend."

"Actshully, it's only half an otter javelin," Broggen clarified. "Mine's only pointed at one end - gives me some place t' hang me hat." In truth, both his beret and his shirt hung from the blunt end of the vertical steel shaft, since Broggen had been disrobing each night and sleeping in just his fur on this march ... which was probably for the best, considering his shedding situation.

Cyril glanced down at himself. He'd been slipping off his sandals for bed but sleeping in his travel shirt out of adolescent modesty. Needless to say, his only garment was now quite rumpled and wrinkled. Cyril suddenly felt more naked than Broggen, who sat totally unclothed as he engaged in casual conversation with Deltus as if the two of them were equals. The young mouse realized he must look like a hobo. It was no wonder if the squirrel chieftain had trouble seeing him as anything but a wayward greenbeast.

"I favor throwing knives myself." Deltus tipped a paw toward his chest to indicate the blade-bedecked belts that crisscrossed his torso. "Many's the foebeast who's fallen to these. I can also handle a bow pretty good, but this lot's easier to carry when you're racin' through the treetops."

"I c'n imagine," Broggen nodded.

"Well, I'll leave you to your beauty rest, friend Broggen. Stand a good watch over him, Cyril. And if there's anything we can help you with, just give a shout and some squirrel's sure to hear you. These're our woods, an' we'll go the extra mile for a friend of Tribe Barrenoak as surely as we'll make our enemies regret settin' foot in this part o' Mossflower!"


	17. Chapter 46

Chapter Forty-Six

Cyril wasn't sure how long he should let Broggen sleep, or exactly what he ought to be doing while the stoat slumbered through sunrise and into the new day. So, the young mouse contented himself with sitting a silent watch, gazing out from underneath their still-erected shelter at the blossoming spring morning as his travel companion's soft snores formed an unlikely harmony with the jubilant birdsong and myriad insect noises.

Broggen must have had a reliable internal timesense, for after a couple of hours' deep slumber he came fully awake quite suddenly, sitting up and pawing the crust from his eyes as he gave a single wide yawn.

"Haawmmph! Anything a-stirring out there, Cyril?"

"Just the birds and the bees. I kept good watch, though. No more sign of those foxes, our new squirrel friends, or anything else for that matter."

"I'm sure y' did, Cyril." Broggen extended his legs out before him and raised his paws high over his head, luxuriating in an ears-to-toes stretch. "Let's get ourselves another quick bite, then I'll get my bed shook out, we can get this rain sheet taken down an' packed away, an we'll be back on th' road 'fore y' know it!"

For his own part, Cyril begrudged their late start not at all, since he could still feel twinges of protest from his shoulder, back and leg muscles. Broggen's sunrise nap had given Cyril a little extra time to rest and recover, and it also meant they would spend less time walking today. As long as Broggen wasn't in any particular hurry to get anywhere, that was fine by Cyril.

They finished eating quickly - it was, after all, their second breakfast of the morning - then Broggen shook out his shedding-covered bedroll, dressed and helped Cyril untie their protective cloth from the overhanging branches and refold it into a compact square that would fit neatly into the stoat's pack. With the sun halfway up the sky, the two made their way through the woods back to the path and resumed their southward course at a casual and unhurried pace.

It was nearing noon and Cyril was getting ready to call a halt for lunch when the two foxes stepped out onto the path a short way ahead of them. Cyril immediately stiffened and grew uncertain in his stride, nearly coming to a complete standstill, but kept walking when he saw that Broggen had not broken stride at all.

The stoat did, however, lean his head slightly down toward Cyril and say out of the corner of his mouth, while they were still too far away for the foxes to hear, "Don't let 'em see ye're nervous or afraid, Cyril lad. An' stay sharp - if these're th' ones Deltus told us 'bout, there's more of 'em around somewheres."

The two Redwallers kept walking until they were only a few paces from the pair of foxes blocking their way. Cyril studied them, taking stock of their expressions and postures and demeanor, as well as their clothing and weaponry, as Broggen had told him he must learn to do when encountering strangers in the wild. The novice mouse was sure that Broggen's trained eye was picking up more now than he possibly could, but this would still be a good chance for him to practice this new skill.

Besides which, it would help take his mind off his quivering legs and his suddenly tight stomach.

These most certainly were not any of Urthblood's swordfoxes, that much was obvious at a glance. Their patched and threadbare clothing was mismatched and spoke more of wandering gypsies than any kind of professional soldiers. Cyril actually felt relief at this; if any of those disciplined Northland warriors had followed Broggen with orders to harm him, there would be little either of them could do to prevent it.

What did not put Cyril at ease was these foxes' attitudes - which suggested that they owned this free road - and their expressions. The unwholesome smiles on their muzzles combined cruel cunning with a forced friendliness that was so obviously false, it sent a chill down Cyril's spine. It was the kind of smile that Wolfrum, the murderous rat who'd almost slain Cyrus the previous summer, might have worn if he'd possessed sly intelligence to match his raw savagery.

"Howdy," Broggen nodded, doing a much better job than the foxes at hiding his battle-readiness behind a bland and friendly-seeming facade. Their penetrating, coldly assessing gazes - so at odds with their fake smiles - bored into the stoat, trying to determine whether he was an ignorant oaf or something more. The javelin in his paw was no proof that he knew how to use it. And Broggen's woodland garb, along with the fact that he was travelling with a mouse as his apparently willing companion, could only be giving them cause for confusion.

"How goes it?" one of the foxes said, in a tone meant to be amiable but which came out more as a verbal sneer. "Don't reckon ye're carryin' any vittles on ya?"

"Just enuff fer th' two o' us," Broggen apologized, taking note of the paws resting on the sword hilts at the foxes' waists. The two weapons were about the only aspect of the creatures that matched. Something about those swords struck Broggen as naggingly familiar, but he couldn't put his paw on exactly what it was. "Sorry," he concluded with a shrug.

The other fox waved a paw toward Cyril, but kept his eyes on the stoat. "Your slave?"

"Naw," Broggen shook his head. "Just a friend."

"Half a friend, more like," snickered the first fox. "What's the matter, couldn't find any full-sized beasts who'd put up with ya?

There came a rustling from behind Cyril and Broggen. They turned their heads just enough to see three more foxes, all bigger and burlier than the original pair, stepping out of the forest to cut off their path of retreat. Two of these newcomers bore heavy chains, while the third wore a whip coiled at his waist. Their grins were just as malicious as those on the two who'd stopped the mouse and stoat.

Broggen dipped his head toward Cyril and whispered, "Slavers. Get ready t' charge forward. Y' wanna stay clear of them chains an' that whip."

Cyril was nearly paralyzed with panicked fear. He'd never actually fought anybeast before, and the prospect had him scared out of his wits. Furthermore, the heavy pack on his back would hinder him greatly. He'd have about as much luck fighting one of these slaver foxes as a newborn mousebabe would.

"You know," the first fox went on, "I think there is enough food in those sacks fer you ta share. Ye're just being unfriendly, an' we can't abide selfish greedyguts who horde all their plenty fer themselves. So I tell ya what we're gonna do. First we're gonna help ourselves to yer supplies ... and then we're gonna help ourselves to you fer good measure!"

The foxes all laughed, but did not immediately close in on their victims, thinking they had the situation well in paw and seeking to taunt the two Redwallers for the fun of it. Broggen took advantage of this moment's inaction to say, "I got a better idea."

"Oh? Do tell," the first fox, apparently the leader of this gang, said.

"Why don't you just step aside an' let us be on our way, 'fore somebeast gets hurt?" Broggen's tone remained conversational, and the pleasant smile never left his lips.

The foxes faltered in their cruel merriment, not sure whether to take this as a challenge or the nattering of a simplebeast utterly oblivious to the peril of his predicament. The mouse at his side was clearly terrified, and had not even made any attempt to reach for his weapons, but this stoat was impossible to read. The lead fox decided to clarify the matter for the possibly obtuse creature.

"Only beast that's gonna get hurt here is you, if ya give us any - "

Broggen didn't even wait for the fox to finish his threat. He charged at the two foxes in front of him, the pack and full quiver strapped to his back scarcely slowing him at all. Both slavers started to draw their swords, but they had never come up against a professional, battle-hardened soldier, and were totally unprepared for Broggen's onslaught.

The spokesbeast fell slain by a javelin thrust, his sword still halfway in its scabbard. His companion succeeded in drawing his blade, but to little avail; his clumsy attempts to ward off Broggen's furious but precise thrusts and blows proved futile, and he too quickly went down, never to rise again.

Fortunately for Cyril, the trio of foxes behind him were as startled by the sudden attack as anybeast, and that gave him the precious moments he needed to drop his longbow and sprint toward Broggen, so that the two of them could fight side by side if it came to that.

Cyril never made it that far. The fox with the whip was the first to recover, and in a practiced move lashed out at the fleeing mouse. Cyril felt the stinging cord wrap itself around his ankle, and with a jerk he was yanked off his feet and fell forward onto his face.

Broggen spun and let his javelin fly like a spear. The steel shaft took the whip-bearing fox through the throat, and he too fell dead.

The two remaining slavers, armed with chains, stood frozen by indecision, never having imagined that such a sudden reversal was possible. This gave Cyril the opportunity to get back up and stumble to Broggen's side, the whip still encircling his smarting ankle and trailing after him like a second tail. One of the foxes looked to the whipmaster, javelin protruding from his throat, then turned back to Broggen with an evil grin on his face.

"You ain't got yer weapon no more, stoat!"

Broggen stooped and scrambled, and when he straightened a moment later he held a sword in each paw, taken from the two slain slavers at his feet. "Naw, now I got two. An' just so you know, I'm amberdextrous, as good with me left paw as with me right. Now, care t' press yer luck, or do y' wanna live t' see another sunset?"

The grinning slaver's smile faltered. His partner glared at him. "C'mon, Mayk, don't lose yer nerve now! Our chains got longer reach than them swords. We can take 'im!"

"Three of us is dead, if you hadn't noticed, Ozgur," Mayk hissed back. "It's just us two now, an' this stoat's a real warrior!"

"That's right," Broggen said, "it's two 'gainst two now - a fairer fight than you brushtails were gonna give us t' start. Now that th' odds're even, have y' got th' spine fer an honest fight?"

Cyril felt like yelling at the stoat what was Broggen thinking of, continuing to challenge these two slavers when they'd been ready to turn tail and flee a moment before. The young mouse had managed to shake off the whip ensnaring his footpaw and had at last drawn his blade, which he now brandished before him as steadily as his trembling paw allowed. But a fight was the last thing he wanted, not with his undeveloped sword skills. Why couldn't this just be over?

One passing detail Cyril had picked up on - as had Broggen - was the fox Mayk's admission that he and Ozgur were the last two remaining of their band. Deltus the squirrel had reported this slaver group to number about half a dozen, leading Cyril to wonder whether there might be one or two others lurking in the adjacent woodlands. Now that it was clear Mayk and Ozgur were alone, Cyril felt somewhat emboldened, if not at ease. Still, he would much preferr to see this end with flight instead of a fight.

"You take th' mouse, if this stoat's got ya so worried," Ozgur chided Mayk. "Half a warrior fer you, an' a whole one fer me!"

Cyril shrugged out of his backpack, never relinquishing his hold on his sword. He wanted to be unencumbered if the worst came ... and, given the size of these two foxes, the worst would likely be more than he could handle. "I'll have you know, fox," he said in a voice he hoped sounded braver than he felt, "that these woods are swarming with a tribe of bloodthirsty squirrel warriors who'd like nothing better than to have your tails for decorations! One good shout from us and they'll come running, so if you know what's good for you, you'll get out of here as fast as your vermin-ridden legs can carry you!"

Mayk's expression of consternation deepened, but Ozgur remained defiant. "I don't see no squirrels 'round here, do you? They couldn't get here fast enough t' do you any good anyways ... "

"Lissen up, mucknose," Broggen growled, "unless I miss me guess, I already took out th' brains o' yer operation, so don't embarrass yerself by tryin' to use yers. Even if you were able t' capture us, what would you do with us then? You think you could still be a successful slavin' band, just th' two o' you? Where'd you take us, an' who would ya sell us to?"

Mayk lowered his chain. "He's right, Oz. We didn't even know where we was takin' th' slaves we already got. Only Gresh knew that, an' he's dead now. We'd best be away from 'ere ... "

"Now that's good sense," Broggen encouraged. "Just grab up th' slaves you already gathered, an' be off with ye!"

Mayk continued to try to convince Ozgur. "We can take our line out to th' coast, find some searats - they're always lookin' fer slaves. That sorry lot's trussed up enough that you an' me could handle 'em ourselves without any trouble, 'specially since they're all youngbeasts. An' if we can't get as good a price as Gresh coulda, it won't matter, 'cos we'd only hafta split it two ways ... "

As Ozgur stood contemplating this option, his deadly gaze never once straying from Broggen, the sound of many voices lifted in song came to their ears, a marching tune carried on the gentle spring breezes. The two foxes stiffened.

"Those don't sound like vermin voices," Broggen said to the slavers. "I'd say yer options just ran out, fellas."

This at last swayed Ozgur, who also lowered his chain as Mayk nervously glanced northward over his shoulder toward the approaching voices. "Okay, you win - this time," Ozgur spat at the Redwallers. Come on, Mayk ... "

Broggen's voice froze the two foxes as they were in mid-turn toward the dense forest. "Not so fast."

"What?" Ozgur snapped at the stoat, antsy to be away from this spot.

"I changed my mind. You two ain't goin' nowhere."

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For many heartbeats the two sides stood stock still, staring each other down. Cyril knew what Broggen was up to, but he didn't know if he was up for it.

"Try 'n' stop us, stoatface," Ozgur sneered.

"Oh, I will," Broggen assured him. "Y' see, now that you've let slip that you've got innocent youngbeasts chained up as slaves, I ain't gonna let 'em stay in yer mangy clutches. Turn tail on me now an' run, an' I'll chase you down an' kill you like th' lily-livered, slavin' cowards you are!" He cocked an ear toward the nearing marchers. "An' I'll have lots o' help huntin' you, too!"

Ozgur, who was a step closer to the woods than his fellow fox, suddenly threw his chain at Broggen with all his considerable strength. The stoat and mouse were just barely able to jump clear of the deadly iron links that came whipping toward them. By the time Broggen regained his equilibrium, Ozgur was just a rust-colored brush disappearing into the trees. This desperate move took Mayk by surprise as much as anybeast, and he trailed Ozgur by several paces in his own escape attempt. Now it was Broggen's turn to throw a weapon. With practiced skill and a fair helping of luck, he flung the sword in his right paw low along the ground at Mayk. The spinning blade caught the fleeing fox across the back of the leg, nearly severing one footpaw with a deep, tendon-slicing gash. Mayk fell with a scream of agony.

Broggen was on top of him in a flash, kicking away Mayk's dropped chain and pinning the fox to the ground with a swordpoint to the throat. Even as the distant marchers came into view around a bend in the road to the north, Broggen reared back his head and yelled, "Redwall! Redwaaalll!"

Upon hearing this battle cry, the marchers broke into a run toward the scene of the fight. In very short order, over two hundred Guosim shrews and one longcoated bankvole had joined Cyril, Broggen and the downed fox.

"What's th' trouble, lads?" Log-a-Log inquired by way of greeting.

Cyril, unable to stave off the trembling weakness in his knees any longer, sank onto the dirt road with his sword lying limply across his lap. "Slavers. They were gonna try and capture us, but Broggen ... stopped them."

"An' a good job he did of it, too, judgin' by th' look o' things 'ere." The shrew chieftain swept his gaze over the three slain foxes, and the fourth who lay grimacing under Broggen s sword. "This th' lot of 'em?"

Broggen shook his head and gestured toward the woods on the east side of the road. "One more, big brute, got away that way, just afore you rounded th' bend."

The Guosim did not need much bidding or command to spring into action. With just the merest paw signal from Log-a-Log, over a score of shrews flooded into the forest in pursuit of Ozgur, shortswords drawn.

"Fittin' , you lot comin' by when y' did," Broggen said, stepping away from the crippled Mayk and holding his borrowed sword out toward the head shrew. "When's th' last time you saw woodland foxes bearin' searat swords?"

Log-a-Log's face clenched like a fist with angry eyes and bared teeth. "That'd be last summer, when my son Pirkko was stolen away by fox slavers!" He advanced toward the maimed fox, paw on his sword hilt.

Broggen stayed his shrew friend with a paw on the shoulder. "Hold a bit, Log matey. We still got some unfinished business t' attend to here."

Log-a-Log scowled at the stoat. "Yer unfinished business can't possibly trump mine, Broggs, if'n these are th' same villains who abducted Pirkko an' others of our tribe!"

"It can, if there's th' lives of innocent youngbeasts currently at stake," Broggen declared earnestly. This gave Log-a-Log pause as the stoat's meaning sank in.

Pirkko, who'd been marching near the head of the Guosim with his father, ran forward to examine the dead foxes. "Hey, I rec'nize this one!" he cried, pointing down at one corpse. "An this 'un too! These're th' foxes who stole us away last summer!"

Several of the other shrews who'd also been kidnapped along with Pirkko rushed out to the scene of the carnage to verify his identifications.

"Well," Log-a-Log sighed, "that's one loose end t' our adventures o' last year that's tied up now. Or nearly so." His gaze returned to Mayk.

"If'n it were up t' me," Broggen said, "I'd let this 'un live. He weren't any kind o' leader, an' he seems t' have a modicum o' sense in 'is head. 'Sides, with that wound I just gave 'im, it'll be a season or two 'fore he'd be in any shape t' give anybeast trouble again."

"I dunno. Ev'ry scrap o' sense in me tells me it ain't a good idea to let any slaver escape with its life. Only misery will come of it."

"There's misery goin' on right now what concerns me," Broggen pressed. "These foxes let slip they got a line o' young slaves stashed somewhere hereabouts. I figgered we could make a deal with this 'un, sparin' 'is life if he agrees t' tell us where they are. But we gotta be willin' t' keep our word - he won't help us if he thinks we're just gonna go ahead an' kill 'im anyway."

"Well ... "

"I'll tell, I'll tell!" Mayk said frantically. "Spare my life, an' I'll take you to 'em, an' promise not t' trouble nobeast ever again fer th' rest o' my seasons!"

"Fair 'nuff," Log-a-Log at last agreed. "You help us get those slaves free, an' you get t' live. But that's only 'cos this good stoat spoke on yer behalf, an 'cos I'm feelin' charitable today." The shrew turned to Broggen again. "What about that other fox we're chasin' down?"

"Slay 'im," Broggen answered without hesitation. "Name's Ozgur, an he's as mean 'n' nasty as they come. That one'll cause more heartache if he stays at large, that I'd bet my beret on."

Log-a-Log gazed into the woods after his now-vanished hunters. "Too late t' send word now, I reckon. If that villain gives my shrews one flick of a wrist's worth of a fight when they catch up with 'im, they'll slay him without battin' an eye. Might slay 'im anyway, just on principle, so I guess it's a good thing you took this one down without killin' him, Broggs."

"Yeah, well, I got a lot t' make up fer," Broggen said somberly. "B'sides, I had Cyril here t' think of, too. Th' lad ain't ever been in a real fight, an' I knew if we came out on th' wrong side o' this one we'd end up either dead or in chains, an' I wasn't about t see either o' them things happen if I could help it. I got t' fight my share o' slavers up in th' Northlands when I was in Lord Urthblood's army, an' I know what they do t' beasts who fall into their clutches. That's one breed o' beast I got no sympathy for."

While a couple of the Guosim's healers tended to Mayk's half-severed footpaw, stitching it back together and binding it as best they could, Broggen went over to Cyril and squatted down in the road alongside him. "Y' did good, Cyril lad."

"I didn't do anything," the dispirited mouse muttered, resheathing his sword without enthusiam. "I was only a burden to you - the one thing I swore I wouldn't be."

Broggen patted his shoulder for encouragement. "Nonsense! You knew not t' panic, which a lot o' creatures your age would've. You knew how t' follow my lead an' stick by my side, even when they tried t' lasso you with that whip. You knew not t' go off half-cocked tryin' t' be some kind o' hero you ain't. You knew t' draw yer sword an' make a united stand with me 'gainst those blighters. An' I've no doubt that if th' fight had gone against us, you woulda gone down swingin' before you'd find yerself chained up in any slave line. Now, speakin o' slave lines, we got one t' find an' liberate. So get yer pack back on, an' let's go cut some chains!"

"Um ... " Cyril was about to remind Broggen that they'd been marching half the morning and had been about to take their much-needed lunch break when they'd been interrupted by the slavers. He really didn't have much of an appetite after what had happened, but he could certainly use some time off his feet and out of his pack. Before he could voice these thoughts, however, a hearty hail sounded from the western reaches of the forest behind them.

"Need a paw there, fellas?"

Everybeast turned to see Deltus and a few of his Barrenoak squirrels emerging from the trees. Broggen stood and greeted them with an upheld paw. "Heya, Deltus! Didn't know if yer territory extended down this far ... "

"Normally it doesn't," the squirrel chieftain nodded toward the milling Guosim, "but when we saw this gang trampin' by, we figured we'd shadow 'em for awhile. Didn't think they'd lead us to you two again - " Deltus glanced toward the slain foxes, " - or to them either. See you didn't need any help puttin' them down."

"Turned out they was slavers," Broggen explained. "Tried to make slaves outta me 'n' Cyril, but we put 'em in their place. One got away, but Log-a-Log here's got his Guosim huntin' him down right now."

"Guess you don't need us then. I've heard of the Guosim shrews, an' if their reputation does 'em justice, that fox doesn't stand a chance."

"Right now it's their slaves we're worried bout," Broggen told Deltus. "They got a line of 'em stashed 'round here somewhere. This one's agreed t' lead us to 'em in exchange fer his life. Don't s'pose you've seen anything of 'em?"

Deltus shook his head. "When these foxes came through our territory, they were alone. If they'd been leading a slave line, we wouldnt've let 'em out of our forest alive. They must've either stowed their slaves somewhere to the far west before they came our way, or else those prisoners are tucked away in those woods to the east, where we usually don't go."

"Don't matter," Log-a-Log interjected, "long as this sleazechops can show us where they are."

Deltus stepped over to Mayk. "Now, seems to me no slavers worth their salt would leave their precious captives alone an' unattended. I don't suppose some of your friends are keepin' watch over them, an' you're planning to walk us right into an ambush?"

Broggen and Log-a-Log traded glances. This possibility hadn't occurred to either of them.

"No, there was just th' five of us!" Mayk declared through his tears of pain as the two shrews tending him worked none too gently on mending his leg. "There's no trap, I swear!"

"There'd better not be," the shrew threatened, "or ye're a deadbeast!"

"I believe him."

All eyes turned to Cyril.

"When Mayk and Ozgur were arguing between themselves," the young mouse went on, "they said something about taking the slaves to the coast and only having to split the profits two ways. They wouldn't have said that unless they were the last two of their band. Right?"

"I do believe th' lad's right," Log-a-Log said, and turned back to Mayk. "So, fox, how'd you manage t' store them poor beasts somewhere's so they don't need t' be watched? Or don't I wanna know?"

"We found an old wrecked cottage southwest o' here," Mayk stammered. "All collapsed on itself. But th' cellar was still all there, an' perfect fer keepin' 'em hid fer a day or two. Just bar th' door, an' they weren't goin nowhere!"

"Don't s'pose you thought t' leave any food or drink down with 'em?"

"Aw, they'll be all right," the fox maintained. "We only left 'em there yesterday midafternoon."

Log-a-Log dealt Mayk a stinging blow across the ear. "No food, no drink, an' they're prob'ly chained up in th' dark too. Yah, ye're a real prince of a fellow, ain'tcha?"

"Well," Deltus hooked his pawthumbs into his belt, "it might be a bit outside Barrenoak's usual range, but we might as well go with you to fetch those slaves. We can give you some treetop cover, in case you run into any more verminous sorts."

"We surely won't turn down that offer, friend." Log-a-Log turned at the sound of his hunting shrews returning from the woods to the east, emerging from the underbrush to rejoin the main column in the road. The seniormost of the smaller party gave his chieftain a single grim, satisfied nod as he drew his paw across his throat. "Well, that's one less fox Mossflower hasta worry 'bout. Soon as we get this last brushtail patched up, we'll go see t' those slaves."

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Broggen, being the biggest and strongest beast present, won the honor of serving as Mayk's living crutch. The fox leaned heavily on him as the slaver led them through the forest toward the hidden slaves.

"Hey, t'was your idea to spare this sot's life, so he's all yours, friend!" Deltus had smirked unsympathetically before bolting up into the branches overhead and joining his squirrels in the forest canopy.

They had, of course, thoroughly searched Mayk to make sure he had no secret weapons concealed on him. The odds of the crippled fox causing trouble were slim, since he could not take so much as a single step without the support of another creature, but nobeast was taking any chances. Cyril trudged beyond the fox's reach on Broggen's other side.

"Good thing y' came along when y' did," Broggen grunted to Log-a-Log as they trekked through the sun-dappled shade of the trackless woods. "If it'd just been me 'n' Cyril alone, we prob'y woulda had t' let those last two go, an' then there woulda been no chance o' helpin' these slaves. But, I thought I'd heard you Guosim would be headed north or west, not south ... "

"Blame it on Lorr." The shrew leader jerked a paw over his shoulder at the eccentric bankvole. Lorr had held both his silence and his distance ever since coming across the carnage in the road, fading well back into the column. The inventor had aways been a bit on the squeamish side, in this instance diverting his eyes from the grisly scene until the Guosim had cleared away the bodies into the roadside brush. He did not even want to be near Mayk lest his gaze inadvertantly slip to the bloody bandages wrapping the fox's wounded leg.

"That loon wanted to have another look at that underwater searat ship," Log-a-Log went on, "so we changed plans an' headed down this way. We'll escort 'im that far an' then leave 'im there while we move on, since those Northland shrews rub our fur th' wrong way. Also heard tell that Lord Urthblood plans on building some kind o' perm'nant garrison there on th' river, an' I m sure Lorr'll wanna stick 'is snout inta those designs. Who knows? If they ain't already a-buildin' it by th' time we get there, maybe Lorr'll help 'em engineer th' blasted place!"

"So, Lorr won't be travelling with you this summer?" Cyril asked.

"Looks like not, lad. Let's face it, we Guosim may wander far 'n' wide, but we're not as like t' come across anything that'd hold his interest much as that pirate rustbucket an' a new fortress bein' built. Lorr did say he's keen on takin' a tour through Foxguard once that place is set up, so maybe we'll swing by in th' fall an' go with him there 'fore we settle back at Redwall fer th' winter. In th' meantime, he'll have th' company o' Urthblood's shrews all to 'imself. Long as Lorr's got something t' study, he should be able t' tolerate their rudeness. That inoffensive vole could prob'ly get along with just 'bout anybeast under th' sun, bless 'is gentle heart."

"You really don't like Urthblood's shrews, do you?" said Cyril.

"Look at it this way, son - when we get to th' searat ship, Fryc's gonna be there." Log-a-Log shot Broggen a knowing glance. "Need I say more?"


	18. Chapter 47

Chapter Forty-Seven

Afternoon was creeping toward dusk as the slow procession came to the cottage ruins. Mayk pointed out the half-concealed cellar door, then gratefully sat down as Broggen and the Barrenoak squirrels unbarred it and cleared away the debris meant to hide it from the eyes of passersby.

They found seven beasts cowering in the dark, dank basement, all young and terrified that their tormentors had returned, all shackled together by their ankles. Broggen let Deltus and the Guosim go down to lead them out, since the slaves would undoubtedly feel more at ease not seeing a stoat among their liberators.

The seven freed captives - a vole, three mice, a squirrel, a shrew and a badger - were astonished to find that an entire army had come to their rescue, and equally amazed to see a mouse and a stoat sharing watch over the wounded slaver fox. The seven youngbeasts were clearly parched and near to starving, so the Guosim gave them food and drink from their Redwall-stocked provisions even as the files came out to saw through their manacles. This time-consuming chore was necessary since Gresh had been carrying the keys and nobeast had thought to retrieve them from his corpse.

While they satisfied their thirst and hunger, the slaves told their tale. It turned out that the mice and the vole had been stolen from their families and had homes to which they could return, but the same could not be said for the badger, squirrel and shrew.

"They hurted my mum 'n' dad 'til they falled down an' wouldn't get up again," the squirrel wept.

"And they put knives in my mother and made all her blood come out," the badger added.

Deltus struggled to contain his rage at these revelations, but it was a losing battle. These accounts of cruelty enraged Cyril and Broggen and the Guosim, but the squirrel chieftain's wrath surpassed all of theirs combined. Storming over to Mayk, he snarled through clenched teeth, "So, you're not just a kidnapper and a slaver, but a cold-blooded murderer as well, huh?"

Mayk raised his paws and cowered back from the advancing squirrel. "Hey, you promised you'd spare my life if I showed ya where these slaves were! You swore it!"

"Actually, chum, I wasn't there when these shrews made that promise." Deltus hauled up the fox by his collar. Mayk - unarmed, outnumbered and in no condition to resist with his injury - hung helplessly in Deltus's grasp, balancing all his weight on his good footpaw. "But I'm not gonna slay you - just give you a taste of your own medicine!"

As everybeast looked on, Deltus dragged Mayk over to the cellar entrance and, picking the fox up by his collar and his tail, literally threw him through the doorway into the darkness beyond. Mayk landed with an agonized howl, and was unable to do anything as Deltus slammed the door shut, wedged the braces back in place to seal it, and tumbled down some of the debris in front of it for good measure.

Deltus stood back, chest heaving and limbs quivering with fury. "Lock kidnapped youngbeasts alone in th' dark with naught to eat or drink, will you? Well, we'll just leave you in there for a season or two, and see how you like it!"

The stunned silence that followed was shattered by a most unexpected sound. Every one of the freed slaves was clapping and cheering at seeing the tables so justfully turned on their former captor.

As Deltus sat down heavily between Broggen and Log-a-Log, the shrew leader said, "Y' know he's gonna die if we leave 'im down there?"

"That's the idea, friend," Deltus nodded. "But it'd be thirst an' hunger doin' the killing, not us, so you'd be stayin' true to your word." Seeing that the others did not seem enchanted with this notion, he burst out, "What, are you gonna tell me he doesn't deserve such a fate?"

"No, I'm sure he deserves it, but when th' Guosim give their word, they stand by it. I ain't thrilled 'bout goin' back on a promise, even if it's only in spirit, an' to a beast like this 'un."

Flustered, Deltus turned to the stoat. "What say you, Broggen?"

Broggen cast his gaze down at his footpaws. "I ain't nobeast t' be havin' a say in which creatures be allowed t' live an' die ... "

"But, those foxes would as soon have clapped you an' Cyril in chains as spit on you. You didn't stand by an' let that happen ... "

"No I didn't," Broggen retorted, looking Deltus straight in the eye. "I put three of 'em in their graves, an' I'd do it again in a heartbeat if'n it was us or them. But four outta th' five of 'em's dead now, an' this one's got a wound that'll keep 'im from walkin' right fer th' rest o' his days. He showed us t' these slaves just like he said he would, an' we did promise t' spare 'is life, after all."

"Bah!" Deltus turned to Cyril. "I suppose you'd be agreein' with your vermin buddy, huh?"

The young mouse's discomfort at being put in the middle of this argument gave way to indignation over the squirrel's sudden frostiness toward Broggen. He wasn't going to sit by and let anybeast disparage his stoat companion, even if it meant standing up to so worthy a warrior as Deltus.

"A promise is a promise, sir. We knew when we made this bargain that Mayk must surely have dark deeds in his past, perhaps even murder. But if we go back on our word now, we're no better than they are."

"Oh, we're better, all right!" Deltus spat. "I'd hafta do a lot more than slay a few murderous foxes before I'd bring myself down to their level!"

"Cyril speaks with th' spirit of Redwall, an' that ain't to be easily dismissed, friend." Log-a-Log glanced westward through the thick forest. "It looks like sun's near down, an' it's gonna take awhile longer 'fore we get all them slaves filed free. We ain't goin' nowhere else t'night, so what say we leave that fox boarded up fer now an' save th' question of what t' do with 'im 'til mornin'?"

"Fair enough," Deltus agreed. "One night down in that dungeon's better than none."

"Now, then," the shrew continued, "some o' these youngbeasts got families worryin' over 'em, and gettin' them back to their homes has gotta be our first priority." Log-a-Log rose and went to the freed slaves; Deltus, Broggen and Cyril followed. The stoat hung back when several of the youngsters eyed him fearfully, but Cyril's presence seemed to comfort them, particularly the vole and the three mice.

"Don't worry, we almost got yer chains off ya," Log-a-Log encouraged them. "Now, those of you who got parents t' go back to, we'll take y' there come mornin'. But you gotta show us th' way. You mice - where does yer home lie?"

The three rodent children looked about the forest, turning their heads almost all the way around. "Um ... it's somewhere to th' north southeast, I think," the oldest finally said. "Or maybe south northwest. I was never that good wi' directions."

Log-a-Log blinked in befuddlement, then looked to the vole. "Um, yeah. I don't reckon YOU know where yer home is, laddie?"

The young vole nodded with great enthusiasm. "Yessum, sir, I do!"

"Good," Log-a-Log breathed with a sigh of relief. "Which way is it, then?"

The vole threw up both arms, pointing both north and south at once. "To th' sunrise sunset!"

The shrew chieftain stood and looked up at Deltus. "I hope you didn't snap that fox's footpaw off when you tossed 'im down there, 'cos it looks like we'll be needin' him t' play pathfinder one more time."

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Upon his release early the next morning, Mayk didn't know whether to be grateful for his liberation or irate at being so roughly incarcerated in the first place. The grim faces of all the woodlanders around him, however, persuaded the fox not to protest his treatment too much.

Fortunately for both Mayk and his former captives, he'd landed face down when Deltus threw him into the cellar, resulting in a chipped tooth and some rib bruising but no further damage to his injured leg. He would be able to lead them, if only slowly, to the homes of the mice and the vole.

Over the objections of the squirrel leader, Mayk was allowed a basic breakfast and swigs from the Guosim's water canteens. "He's gotta be in condition fer travellin'," Log-a-Log reminded Deltus, "elsewise he's no use to us!" Deltus merely turned away, gritting his teeth over this necessity.

Broggen, meanwhile, had whittled down a study oak branch that Mayk could use as a crutch. The stoat presented the finished product to Log-a-Log. "Me 'n' Cyril will be headed back to th' road an' then south. That fox can stump 'is way along on this, since I wager Deltus an' his mates won't be too keen on proppin' him up as he walks ... "

"Couldn't anyway," Deltus informed them. "We'll be goin' north when we leave here, back to our drey. We've already journeyed far outside our territory, and we're eager to be home."

"I understand. Not ev'rybeast's made fer th' wanderin' life we shrews follow. Now, Mayk 'ere says we gotta go south t' get these mice an' this vole back to their homes, but that still leaves the other three, who've got no homes nor family left, thanks to these brushtailed villains. Th' shrew lass's said she'd be happy t' stick with us an' become part o' th' Guosim, but the squirrel an' badger lads ain't got that option. I've told 'em a little 'bout Redwall, an' they decided they'd both like to go there. T'would be a great help if you could take 'em to th' Abbey - it would save any o' my shrews from havin' t' double back an' then risk not bein' able t' find our main group again."

"Sure," Deltus assented, "we could do that."

"You know where th' Abbey is?"

"Near enough to find it with no problem," the squirrel assured Log-a-Log. "North along the main path and you can't miss it, or so I've always heard. Been meaning to pay it a visit one of these days, and this gives me as good a reason as any I'll ever have."

Log-a-Log went over to Broggen and put a paw on the stoat's arm. "Why don't you go back t' Redwall with 'em, Broggs? These youngbeasts would still be slaves if not for you. You may've taken a life, but you've saved these seven from a lifetime o' misery worse'n death, an' that ain't nothin' t' sneeze at. When th' Abbess an' the others hear 'bout yer bravery 'n' good deeds here, I'm sure they'll let you back in."

But Broggen shook his head. "Even if'n they'd have me, I couldn't face goin' back there. Not yet, not after what I done. I came out 'ere t' do good, an' I figger I got a whole lot more good t' do 'fore I'm anywhere near even fer Sister Aurelia. Mebbe someday I'll be fit company fer decent creatures again, but fer now I gotta be on me own."

Deltus leaned into the conversation. "What's this about you taking a life?"

Cyril quickly jumped to his stoat companion's defense. "It was an accident. Somebeast tricked Broggen into getting drunk, and ... well, it was an accident."

Broggen hung his head. "An accident it may've been, but th' blood's on my paws just th' same."

"Ah." Deltus nodded. "Hope it wasn't anybeast too important you killed."

"Um ... " An awkward silence stretched among Broggen, Cyril and Log-a-Log. At length the shrew muttered, "T'was Redwall's chief healermouse."

"You don't say?" Deltus gave the stoat an unsympathetic, appraising gaze. "I'm not surprised they ran you out of the Abbey. In fact, I'm half surprised they didn't string you up by your pawthumbs for such a thing. I'm glad I didn't know this about you when I first saw you in our woods, or else I would've been sore tempted to let my knives do all the talking."

"Broggen's a goodbeast!" Cyril protested.

Deltus considered this. "Aye, he does act the part pleasant enough. I've seen with my own eyes that he can do good an' heroic deeds, and if a Redwall mouse and the leader of the Guosim are gonna stick by him like you two are, there must be something to it. But to've taken an innocent life, of a healerbeast ... that's something I've got some trouble gettin' past."

"I don't blame you," Broggen said. "Most creatures would. That's why I'm lookin' fer someplace deep in th' woods t' settle down where I'm not apt t' trouble anybeast ever again."

"Then please do keep on your way," the stern squirrel told him, "because you wouldn't be welcome anywhere in my woods. Not even if you are a foxslayer."

"That's th' plan," Broggen said, placid in the face of Deltus's hostility. "Me 'n' Cyril are gonna head down to Lorr Bridge an' across th' broadstream there. I figger that'll put me far 'nuff away from Redwall t' put both me an' them at ease."

Cyril hadn't realized Broggen meant to go so far south; Lorr Bridge lay at least another day's march below them, maybe two at the pace they'd been going. While he harbored misgivings about venturing so far from Redwall - the only home he could remember having in his young life - he was also excited by the prospect of seeing the now-legendary bridge that had been designed by the eccentric bankvole and built by the Guosim the previous spring. That alone would make the trip worth it.

However, another aspect to their situation presented itself when the oldest of the mouse slaves asked Cyril, "Aren't you comin' with us, sir?"

The adolescent Abbeymouse was thrown for a loop to hear anybeast calling him "sir." He supposed that with his sandals, his borrowed squirrel's tunic, the shortsword at his side and his general ragged-around-the-edges appearance from roughing it for the past few days, he might come across as slightly older than he was. Still, it drove home to Cyril just how young these mice were, for the oldest of them to defer to him thus. And those foxes would have sold them into slavery for the rest of their lives!

Now the three mice - it was still unclear whether they were siblings or not - stood looking up at Cyril with hope in their wide eyes. It had become quite obvious during breakfast that, while the young creatures remained somewhat leery of Broggen, the presence of the Redwall mouse provided a great comfort to them. The Guosim were very brash and aggressive in their manner, Deltus and his squirrels grim and intimidating. And a stoat was unquestionably to be avoided, even so friendly-seeming a stoat as this one. That left Cyril and Lorr as the two rescuers the liberated slaves could approach without being unnerved.

"Please, won'tcha come with us?" the volechild implored, tugging at Cyril's sleeve. "Pleeease?"

Lorr came over to him. "They seem to've grown partial to you, Cyril, yes yes, haven't they? Why not come with us, it would do them a world of good, yes it would."

Cyril's gaze went from the trenchcoated inventor bankvole to the youngsters, and then to the stoat standing behind him. "I'll not leave Broggen. If he agrees, then we'll both go with you."

"Whatever ye're gonna do, Cyril lad, you'll hafta decide fast," Log-a-Log advised him. "Sun's gettin' high, an' these young 'uns'll wanna be away from this place where they was locked up an' left alone in th' dark just as soon as may be ... "

Cyril saw that Deltus was already gathering up his squirrels and making ready to head north with the freed badger and squirrel slaves. He turned to Broggen. "Do you wanna do this?"

"Lorr's right, Cyr. These youngbeasts do seem at ease with you about, so why deny 'em that? If'n it'll do 'em good, then you should walk with 'em. An' that fox'll have me t' lean on after all."

And so it was decided. As Deltus made his farewells and set off for Redwall, the Guosim banked their breakfast cookfires and geared up to move out again. Cyril shrugged into his pack, adding bow and quiver to his burden since Broggen would have his paws full with Mayk. The stoat and fox took the lead, Mayk leaning heavily on Broggen as he pointed the way.

"If'n y' ask me," Broggen said, "I reckon ye're lucky us 'n' them squirrels are headed in opposite directions. If you'd ended up in Deltus's paws, he'd make you a deadbeast, promise or no."

Mayk gulped, realizing the stoat was most likely correct.

Just behind them, Cyril walked with the young slaves. "Excuse me, sir," the oldest mouse asked, "but would you mind terribly if we helped you carry some of that?"

Cyril was about to decline, thinking that these children had been through enough and deserved to have things easy for awhile, then realized that they wanted to make themselves helpful. Freed from their chains at last, they brimmed with so much energy that they seemed likely to go bolting off through the trees at any moment.

"Sure," he said, passing his bow to the vole and the quiver to the oldest mouse. "Make sure you hold that right way up so that the arrows don't spill out ... "

"Well, I'm not stupid!" the youngbeast huffed, struggling to sling the quiver over his shoulder.

Cyril couldn't help but laugh. "What was your name again?"

"Pryle, sir."

"Pryle, you remind me a little of my brother ... "

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It was midafternoon and half past lunch when they came to the solitary cottage in the woods.

They'd taken only a very brief rest for their midday meal, and Cyril sighed with relief when Log-a-Log called a halt to investigate the structure. The Redwall mouse was glad that the hobbled fox had left them no choice but to keep their pace fairly slow, but Cyril had still ended up being on his feet almost continually since daybreak, with his weighty pack straining at back and shoulders. This had actually turned out to be the most grueling leg of his travels since leaving the Abbey, but with Pryle and the other freed slaves marching at his side, he dared not complain aloud. After all, they had seen far worse.

At least Cyril saw that he'd made the right decision in bringing his sandals along with him. The possible danger of blisters was nothing compared to sparing his soft, Abbey-raised soles and toes from the unforgiving terrain of the deep forest they traversed now.

The simple dwelling before them looked like it had been dropped into the middle of the woods. No clearing or lawn separated it from the surrounding forest, nor were there gardens or even any path leading to or from it. It might almost have been a long-abandoned place, were it not for the neat and well-maintained appearance of roof, chimney and windows. Clearly, whoever lived here cared little for what went on in the wider world beyond their tidy residence.

Log-a-Log looked to Pryle and his young cohorts. "This any o' yer's home?"

The children all shook their heads, but it was Mayk who answered. "Nay, 'tis ... 'tis the badger's place."

"Ah. Good thing that young stripedog went north with Deltus. Seein' th' scene of his mother's murder could only have caused him a world o' hurt. Well, I'd better go check it out fer myself. Th' rest o' you, stay 'ere." Log-a-Log picked two of his fellow Guosim, and the trio strode forward to investigate. The cottage door stood ajar, so they had no trouble entering the abode.

They emerged moments later, their faces ashen. Log-a-Log, livid and trembling, stormed right over to Mayk and got into the fox's face. "Couldn't you o' just run her through clean 'n' quick?" the shrew leader snarled, keeping his voice low so the youngbeasts couldn't hear. "That badger lady's been stabbed so many times she's practically hacked t' bits!"

Mayk lifted his paws, fearful that the smaller creature might strike him. "I never laid paw ner blade on her, I swear it! T'was Gresh an' Railyng, an' Ozgur too! They were th' bloodthirsty ones - Gresh 'specially!"

"Yah. You just stood by an' watched th' slaughter, I s'pose ... "

"I was busy gettin' th' brat chained up in th' line while the others took care o' his mother. She went berserk, an' was chargin' even after she'd been stabbed a couple times. Full Bloodwrath, or near about as close to it as I ever wanna get! It took all them wounds just t' bring 'er down!"

"So it was self defense, eh?" Log-a-Log sneered in contempt.

"It was, compared t' what Gresh did t' that shrew family ... " Mayk actually shuddered at the memory. "Sometimes I wonder how we got any slaves at all, with Gresh slayin' just about every non-fox we crossed paths with!"

"Broggen was right," Log-a-Log spat, "it is a good thing Deltus ain't with us now, 'cos I'd be sore tempted t' let 'im have you all to 'imself!" He turned to the rest of the company. "Cyril, Broggs, you may's well get outta them heavy packs an' rest yerselves, 'cos we're gonna be here awhile. We got a burial duty t' perform 'fore we move on."

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So many of the Guosim volunteered to help that Log-a-Log had all he could do to limit the gravediggers to six. With so many willing paws, they got the grave dug quickly. Others, meanwhile, found cleaning supplies in the cottage cupboards and went to work scrubbing the floors and swabbing the walls clear of the blood. Log-a-Log felt it only properly respectful that this tragic homestead be cleansed of the reminders of what had happened here. The badger mother had obviously kept her cottage spic and span, and to leave the gory evidence of her murder would hardly help put her spirit to rest.

The badgermum, wrapped in an oversized sheet taken from a linen closet, was lowered into the earth, the fragrant dark soil pushed back over her and tamped down to an unobtrusive mound.

Cyril and Lorr kept the youngbeasts well away from the grislier parts of these chores, diverting their attention with jokes and songs and stories so that they would not wander into the blood-soaked hut or glimpse the mutilated badger before she had been properly interred.

At last everybeast assembled around the burial mound to pay their respects to this creature they had come to know only in death.

"Seems t' me I been attendin' too many funerals this spring," the shrew chieftain said, "an' this may be th' saddest of 'em all - a mother cut down in her prime whilst defendin' her only son from slavers. I don't know yer name, marm, but now you've been given a proper sendoff from this world, an' ye can rest easy knowin' yer lad's in good paws, on his way t' Redwall at this very moment. So be at peace, an' may yer time in Dark Forest be happier than yer last day on this earth."

Everybeast bowed its head, saying a silent prayer for the spirit of the departed badger. Even Mayk, seated outside the main gathering, was respectfully subdued.

"Well, that's that," Log-a-Log concluded. "Time t' be on our way ... "

While the grave was being dug and the cottage scrubbed, the rest of the Guosim had spread out and located a small nearby spring from which the two badgers had undoubtedly gotten their water for drinking, cooking and bathing. Now, all the shrews who hadn't had time to do so before the ceremony went and topped off their canteens and water pouches. Cyril and Broggen did likewise.

"All in all, they had a good little set-up here," the shrew leader said as he ran his gaze over the cottage. "We found lotsa spare linens an' clothes tucked away in closets and cupboards, an' must be a year's supply o' canned an' dried vittles in storage. Some weapons 'n' tools, an' a full rainbarrel out back. Everything they needed t' be comfortable, right 'ere ... "

"Reckon we oughtta restock our provisions from their supplies?" asked one of the other shrews.

"Naw. Let's leave this place as we found it. Well, almost like we found it," he added, remembering the marks of violent death they'd had to erase. "'Tis empty now, but mayhap some honest beast'll come along an' make it a happy homestead again someday."

Log-a-Log turned to Mayk. "How much farther to these youngbeasts' homes, fox?"

"They're near the broadstream south o' here. Should be able t' get there by nightfall."

"Then what're we waitin' fer? Guosim - fall out!"

With Mayk propped against him and the fox's paw around his shoulder, Broggen led the way once more. But the stoat could not help throwing a few backward glances behind him toward the vacant cottage, which was quickly lost to view in the thick forest.


	19. Chapter 48

Chapter Forty-Eight

The homecoming was every bit as jubilant as anybeast would have expected it to be.

The vole and mouse families lived together in a somewhat unusual arrangement. The voles made their home in a mostly underground warren dug into the tall part of one riverbank, a simple entrance that expanded farther back into a modest labyrinth of chambers and corridors. The mouse residence - a rough timber assemblage that sprawled out into several ramshackle wings - was built directly above the vole tunnels, with interior stairs down to that level which effectively made the warren into a basement for the mice. It was a much less formal arrangement than Redwall, with only two species sharing the split-level abode, but it was nevertheless an example of cooperative living seldom seen in the deep woods.

Five of the settlement's children had been out playing in the forest, beyond the supervision of any of the adults, when the fox slavers took them by surprise. One of the voles had managed to elude their hunters and escape back to the streamside dwelling, but by the time he'd made himself understood through his hysterics and the grownups could muster a rescue party, the foxes and their prisoners were long gone.

The tears of sorrow and loss turned to tears of joy as the captured youngsters came marching out of the twilight forest gloom in the company of a mouse, a lame fox being supported by a stoat, and over tenscore shrews. Pryle and his two cousins were embraced by their respective parents to the verge of smothering, while the returning vole was treated likewise by his mother and brother.

When he at last broke free of his grateful parents, Pryle went over to Cyril and tugged at his sleeves until the Redwall mouse was dragged forward to stand before the older mice. "This's Mister Cyril. He slew all those wicked foxes an' freed us!"

This exaggeration struck Cyril speechless. He'd said nothing to any of the freed slaves that might lead them to such a conclusion. It was worse than an exaggeration, since he'd literally stood by and done nothing while Broggen and the Guosim took care of the foxes, and Cyril felt most uncomfortable having such undeserving praise heaped upon him. But before he could protest, he was stopped by a paw upon his shoulder.

"Aye, that 'ee did!" Broggen said from alongside him. "Although I don't reckon me 'n' Cyril coulda done it ourselves without help from these Guosim shrews. They deserve yer thanks much as anybeast."

Pryle's father, who appeared to be the mouse in charge of things around here, suspiciously regarded Broggen and Mayk. "Who're these two then?"

Cyril quickly spoke up at the creature's accusatory tone. "This is Broggen. Don't worry, he's a friend. He and I are both Redwallers."

The mouse raised an eyebrow. "A Redwall stoat?" he asked incredulously.

"Sure. He used to be a soldier for the Badger Lord Urthblood, but he's been retired and living at the Abbey for the past two seasons. He's a goodbeast."

The mouse father shifted his gaze to Mayk. "And I suppose that fox is a goodbeast too?"

"Nay," Log-a-Log said, striding forward, "he's the last o' them slavers - we took care o' the rest." The shrew chieftain went on to explain how Mayk had guided the woodlanders to the imprisoned slaves, and thence back to the homes from which they'd been taken, in exchange for his life. "So y' see, without this brushtailed maggot's cooperation, yer young 'un's woulda perished in their hidey hole, shut in with no food or water."

Pryle's father scowled at Mayk. "I'm sure you'll understand if I don't shower him with my gratitude." The fox shrank under the smaller creature's withering glare.

Log-a-Log gave a mirthless laugh. "This one'll be happy 'nuff if'n he gets outta this with all his parts still attached. Don't think he's lookin' fer any kind words from us."

"Then he won't be disappointed." The mouse extended a paw to Log-a-Log. "Name's Deakyne. Everybeast here looks to me for most things, so I guess that makes me the closest thing we've got to a leader. Thank you for bringing my son and his friends back to us. In all truth, we never thought we'd see any of them again."

"T'was a privilege an' a pleasure, Deakyne. I know what it's like to have a son stolen by slavers. My Pirkko was taken last summer, by this very same gang, as it turns out, so puttin' 'em outta business was personal fer me too. I was able t' get Pirkko back afore he ended up chained in some searat rowin' galley, an' I'm mighty glad yer own misfortune had a likewise happy ending."

Several of the other mice and voles held lanterns, which now shone forth in the descending night, holding at bay the deepening darkness along the high streambank. Deakyne cast his gaze over the milling Guosim, whose numbers trailed away into the gloaming of the twilit forest.

"Our quarters are simple and small, and there is simply no way I can invite you all into our home. But we can at least extend our gratitude and hospitality to a few of you. Log-a-Log, and Cyril ... "

"And Broggen," Cyril quickly added. When Deakyne made a face and a few of the others showed misgivings, the novice mouse went on, "If Broggen's not welcome in your home, then we'll both stay out here." Cyril tried to set his jaw to look as resolute as he could. He figured that if the slaves from the searat lumber mill had succeeded in bluffing Browder into Redwall with such a gambit, he could do it here with Broggen. After all, Pryle had just about painted Cyril as the single-pawed hero of the moment, so they wouldn't dream of denying him. Would they?

They wouldn't. "Very well," Deakyne sighed, yielding as much to Pryle's wide imploring gaze as to Cyril's stubborn intransigence. "If you vouch for your stoat friend, that's good enough for me. Come, let's go inside. Good Log-a-Log, will your shrews be all right out here for the night?"

"Not a worry. We're wanderin' beasts at heart, an' we sleep under th' stars more often than not. But, if y' got a spare bed fer me in there, I ain't about t' turn it down!"

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Cyril, Broggen, Log-a-Log and Lorr ended up being the only four guests invited into Deakyne's home that night. Mayk was left outside with around two hundred Guosim shrews to guard him.

Over a score of mice lived in this community, and all were related, being Deakyne's brothers, sisters, in-laws, sons, daughters, nieces and nephews. Another dozen or so voles dwelt in the tunnels and chambers hollowed out from the streambank ground below the mouse residence. While the two clans generally kept to themselves, they would often pool their resources for big tasks or mingle for celebrations and happy occasions. And the return of their stolen youngsters most certainly qualified as a happy occasion.

It had been deemed easier, seasons before, for the main meeting hall of the mice and voles to be situated below ground, since the voles could excavate as large a chamber as they wished merely by digging, whereas the mice would need to erect it from scratch with timber and stone. Thus it was that the visitors found themselves being escorted down the stairs from the central dining room of Deakyne's sprawling home to the cozier confines of the voles' habitat.

Lorr especially was taken with this architectural layout. All the walls and ceilings of the warren had been coated with a white plaster that reflected the scantest light and made the underground spaces much brighter and more cheerful than the usual subterranean lair. The floors were laid with tiles of river slate and terra cotta worn to such a blissful smoothness that they felt like silk underpaw - a sensation even Cyril was able to enjoy, since the fastidious voles had insisted he remove his sandals and leave them upstairs before descending to their immaculate domicile. The others had been made to repeatedly wipe their footpaws on coarse and wiry brush mats to remove every speck of dirt they might have picked up on their journeying.

"Make sure you get between your toes," Deakyne warned, "and the undersides of your tails too if you've been dragging them. Neblett keeps a clean homestead, and he'll let you hear it if you go messing it up!"

Log-a-Log snickered. "Just wait'll Broggs starts sheddin' his white hairs all over their clean floors an' chairs!"

The stoat looked taken aback. "Hey, I'm almost all brown now! Got hardly any white strands left on me, 'cept fer me front, which stays white all th' year 'round."

Neblett, the patriarch of the voles just as Deakyne was for the mice, conducted them all down to his living level, where the visitors marvelled at the cheery air and bright walls and splendid floors. Lorr was fascinated by the curious placement of some of the sandstone support columns and wall partitions.

"Yeah," Neblett explained with an expansive wave of his paw, "everytime we expand down here, we hafta make durn sure we don't undermine our neighbors' place upstairs. I'll admit we prob'ly overbuild our supports, but better t' be safe than sorry in such matters, eh?"

Lorr was somehow reminded of the unnecessarily-reinforced courtyard he'd seen in the plans for Foxguard, but refrained from comment since that would mean nothing to these folks. Besides, given their recent experiences with foxes, the last thing these mice and voles needed to hear about was a colony of warrior swordfoxes constructing a fortress of their own right here in central Mossflower.

"Yes, yes, fascinating, yes," Lorr commented. "Your level is like their basement, while their level is like your attic. Two clans, sharing linked homes that can exist just as readily apart as together in cooperation. A unique arrangement, I imagine. I certainly have never heard of such a thing before, no indeed, no I haven't."

"It reminds me a little of Redwall, in a way," Cyril said, "even if there are only two kinds of creatures living here, and it's not nearly as big or grand. Where the mice live upstairs is kind of like our upper dormitories, with their main dining room taking the part of Great Hall, while down here is more like Redwall's cellars, and the tunnels where the Long Patrols live. And I'm sure the big gathering chamber here will be sort of like Cavern Hole."

"Reminds me a bit o' Salamandastron," remarked Broggen, the only beast present who'd ever been inside the mountain stronghold of the Badger Lords. "That place's all tunnels 'n' chambers hollowed outta solid rock. This place ain't as gloomy as that seaside fort, tho'. Cheery down 'ere, almost."

"An' all built inta th' side of a high streambank, to boot," Log-a-Log said, clearly impressed, then turned to Lorr. "These folks deserve th' title 'bankvole' more'n you do!"

"Ah, so you're a bankvole then too, huh?" Neblett looked to Lorr. "Not of the Horsford bankvoles, are ya?"

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am, indeed I am. Horsford was my grandsire, and I was even named after him - Lorr Horsford Bankvole is my full given name, to be precise, my proper name, yes. Did you know him?"

"My father knew his son Fogarty. That'd be your dad, I take it?"

"No, no, Fogarty was my uncle. My father was Fogarty's brother Garrabrant ... "

The two voles were still discussing their lineage when the party entered the big gathering hall. They had to step down into the spacious chamber; Neblett broke off from his familial ruminations with Lorr to explain that they'd wanted to give this hall a high ceiling, but since they couldn't dig upward without risk of collapsing Deakyne's structure or coming up in the middle of the mice's dining room, they'd lowered the floor instead. Lorr was, needless to say, impressed by this ingenuity.

"But, aren't you worried about flooding, at all?" the eccentric inventor asked.

"Not a problem," Neblett assured him. "Not only does our only riverside entrance slope upward to prevent water coming in that way if the broadstream ever rises that high - which, by the way, it hasn't in all the seasons we've lived here - but these tiled floors and plastered walls are made of materials that would withstand a flood. We might need to replace some of our furnishings, but that'd be about it."

Cyril was nearly awestruck by the ornate hall that opened out before him. In keeping with the voles' redundant engineering philosophy, multiple sandstone columns rose from floor to ceiling, supporting the reinforced arches and buttresses there. Even without any stained glass windows (or any windows at all, for that matter), Cyril could at first glance almost have mistaken this place for Redwall's Great Hall. It was much smaller, of course, but after the passage through the relatively narrow corridor it still struck the eye as vast. And the light walls actually did make it seem brighter here than in Great Hall, even though they were completely underground.

"Wow," said Broggen. "Shows what a pawful o' mice 'n' voles can do when they put their minds to it ... "

"Actually," Deakyne confessed, "we did have the help of some passing moles that season."

"Yeah, it shows," Log-a-Log nodded. "But, ain't this a lot larger'n yer needs, if'n there's fewer than twoscore o' you?"

"Our families are growing all the time," Neblett explained. "We built this hall to last for generations. And, although we don't often entertain visitors, we like to be prepared for the possibility. If a crew of hungry river otters drops by - as has happened more than once - these seats can get pretty full real fast!"

"I can imagine," the shrew chieftain agreed. "But, y'know, I could swear we've been down this broadstream this way in the past two or three summers. We must've paddled right past you without even realizin' you were here."

"It's easy to do," said Neblett. "Deakyne's lodge is set back far enough from the high bank that it's easy to miss if you're not looking for it. And all you'd see of our home is a little round hole halfway up the bank, as like to be the hovel of a solitary hermitbeast as anything." The vole laughed. "It's not that we went out of our way to disguise ourselves from the river, that's just how it turned out. I mean, it's not like searats are gonna come sailing up here from the coast!"

The four guests exchanged a common glance. Obviously, the otters who were supposed to be spreading the warning about the underwater searat infiltrator vessels throughout Mossflower had yet to alert these folk.

Log-a-Log sighed. "Actually, now that you bring that up ... "

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Cyril took a seat with Broggen on one paw and the hero-worshipping Pryle on the other. Several of the community's other children sat on the stoat's other side; the youngsters, especially those who had not been taken by the foxes, were quicker to accept such a beast, since they'd not yet had a lifetime's mistrust of vermin drummed into them. Broggen was at his friendliest, and since he seemed to have a mouse, a bankvole and a shrew as faithful companions, the youngbeasts reasoned that he must be all right. He didn't, after all, look all that different from the otters who dropped by to visit once every season or two - his neck was a little longer, his paws weren't webbed and his tail was more scraggly and less rudderlike - and otters were always welcome here, so why not this easygoing beast who resembled them? Besides which, the jauntily-angled beret atop his head was an adornment no evil creature would possibly wear.

Deakyne drifted over their way before the serving began in earnest. "Cyril," the mouse patriarch asked, "don't you and Broggen wish to sit with the other adult beasts?"

"With all due respect, sir, Broggen and I seem to be the heroes of the hour amongst your young ones, and they really seem to want to sit by us ... "

"Yeah, Dad," Pryle implored from alongside the Redwall mouse, "don't make 'em move! We like Cyril an' Broggen!"

Deakyne smiled. "No one's making anybeast move, Pry. But, um, just because you're sitting with our children, Cyril, that doesn't mean you and Broggen have to drink what they are. Would you like me to trade you some plum wine or blackberry brandy for that fruit juice you're sipping?"

Broggen threw up a paw. "Oh, no, I daresn't drink any spirits, sir! Makes me act all outta sorts."

"Well, we don't want that ... " Deakyne said uncertainly.

"Fruit punch is fine for me too, sir," Cyril quickly added, to present a united front with his stoat friend. "It's quite delicious."

"Our special blend. Help yourselves to as much as you'd like."

The rest of the homecoming feast was every bit as delicious as the punch. There was thick potato stew swarming with more vegetables than Cyril could name, spicy shrimp soup that the visiting otters had taught the voles how to make, a variation on the classic mole deeper 'n' ever pie, quince tarts, freshly baked nutbread, sweet spicebread so moist it almost oozed honey, mellow and tart cheeses, and a variety of pies, cakes and puddings for dessert. Between the fine fare and the columned, arch-ceilinged setting, Cyril could almost imagine he was back at Redwall. He'd never supposed there might be someplace else in Mossflower that so captured the warm essence of his Abbey home. It was wonderful.

Cyril and Broggen told their youthful tablemates all about Redwall until their jaws grew tired - although the amount of eating in which they indulged no doubt contributed to those facial aches - while Log-a-Log and Lorr filled in Neblett and Deakyne on the searat submarines, the war between Urthblood and Urthfist, and the surviving Badger Lord's continuing conflict with Tratton - all of which was news to the sheltered mouse and vole settlement. Log-a-Log figured he might as well tell his new friends about Foxguard while he was at it, since that fox stronghold was far enough to the northeast (and on the other side of the River Moss) that there would likely be little if any interaction between Foxguard and these folk. The mice and voles were flabbergasted by the notion of a badger warrior raising a mighty army of vermin and woodland beasts to fight side by side for the security of all the lands. Their disquiet over the news of Foxguard was tempered by the presence of Broggen, whose full part in the battle against the slavers was at last revealed to the two woodland leaders, and the assurances that Urthblood's vermin and goodbeasts had worked together to rescue Pirkko and the other prisoners from the searats the previous summer.

"That badger can tell a wicked vermin from a decent one, an' that's no fib," Log-a-Log concluded. "Anybeast in Urthblood's service - don't matter if'n it's a mouse or a rat, otter or weasel, squirrel or fox - is one you can trust."

"That may be," Deakyne said with some misgiving, "but after what you've just told us about Broggen, all I do know is that that stoat will be welcome in our home anytime he cares to visit - with or without the Guosim."

The feast lasted well into the night, mainly because it had gotten such a late start with the twilight homecoming. The four guests outlasted the children they'd rescued, but as the hour passed midnight Cyril felt his own eyelids begin to droop heavily as well. Fortunately, his three companions were also weary from all their trekking and drowsy from all the food they'd eaten, so Cyril did not end up looking like the green Abbey novice he was, having to be put to bed while the grown-ups went on talking through the night.

Extra beds were a rather scarce commodity in this twin settlement; in fact, Deakyne explained, whenever the otters stopped by to stay, they had to sleep on mats in this gathering hall, much as the wintering Guosim did in Cavern Hole at Redwall, simply because none of the mouse and vole beds were long enough for them. Beds were found for Log-a-Log and Lorr down on Neblett's level, while Cyril and Broggen were assigned the only spare bedroom that the extended mouse family had available. The stoat had to sleep on the floor alongside Cyril's bed, but with his bedroll and the extra cushions Deakyne provided him, Broggen slept as comfortably as anybeast there that night.

They all slumbered until well past sunrise the next morning. When everybeast was at last up and about, Log-a-Log decreed that breakfast would be on him in return for the superb hospitality they'd been shown the night before. Shrew cookfires dotted the woods around the mouse lodge, their aromatic blue-white smoke filling the spaces between the trees. Toasted wheatcakes were prepared by the hundreds, whipped up from the best ingredients Redwall had to offer to the departing Guosim. Deakyne and Neblett provided jams of raspberry, strawberry, apple and plum, along with syrups of maple, honeyed greensap and cherry hazelnut, to add a symphony of flavors to the fresh hot shrewcakes.

"Well, we gotta be movin' on today," Log-a-Log announced toward the end of the meal. "Like we told you last night, we was on our way south t' drop off Lorr at that searat vessel, an' we wanna get there afore spring's too much older."

"I'd invite you to stay longer, but it's not fair to make all your fellow shrews stay outside while you enjoy our food and beds." Deakyne, who'd come out with his family and Neblett's voles to enjoy breakfast under the morning sun, glanced over the mass of camped Guosim. "We simply don't have enough room - or food - for all of you."

Log-a-Log waved off his concerns with the flick of a paw. "Oh, no need fer 'pologies or worries. Between th' feast you gave me 'n' Lorr last night, an' all th' spreadin's 'n' toppin's you shared with us this morn, you've shown us gratitude aplenty, an' we thank ye."

"Two meals - even if they could have been the best meals on earth - seems scant repayment for bringing our young ones back to us," Neblett said. "Know that we will consider ourselves friends of the Guosim forever more, and if there is anything you need of us, you have only to ask."

"Neblett speaks for all of us," Deakyne agreed. "Mouse or vole, everybeast here is now your friend and ally, in good times and ill."

"Aw, we just did what anybeast with a shred o' conscience in 'em woulda done," the shrew chieftain said. "But, thank ye again. It's always nice t' know we got a safe port we can pull inta in rough weather."

"Do you know how to get where you're going from here?" Neblett asked.

Log-a-Log pointed upstream. "Easy as eggshells, matey. We'll just follow along th' north bank 'til we get t' that big bridge Lorr had us build last summer, an' cross there. It'll save us havin' t' fell a dozen trees or two fer makin' logboats t' fit us all. Then we'll tramp our way south an' west to th' lower broadstream, an' leave Lorr off with Urthblood's Northland shrews there." He cocked his head toward Deakyne and Neblett. "Don't s'pose you've seen any of 'em passin' this way? There's been a great gaggle of 'em dribblin' down inta Mossflower ever since winter's end."

The mouse and vole both shook their heads. "Nope. They haven't been by here," Deakyne said.

Sitting on the ground nearby, Pryle clutched at Cyril's sleeve. "Do you really hafta go too? I want you to stay."

Cyril tousled Pryle's headfur, as he'd done so many times to Cyrus. "I'd really like to stay, too, but ... " His gaze went to Broggen. He could tell from the stoat's purposeful expression that Broggen meant to be off this morning as well. "I've got a friend I've got to stick with."

Pryle sniffled, and the other three youngbeasts who'd been rescued from the slavers pawed away tears. "Well, will you promise you'll come visit us again, sometime soon?"

"Sure," Cyril nodded, smiling. "Now that I know the way here, I'll be sure to visit, often as I can."

"Our door is always open to you, Cyril." Deakyne looked to the stoat. "And to you, Broggen."

"So, we're going with the Guosim when they leave?" Cyril asked his companion for confirmation.

To his surprise, Broggen shook his head. "North."

Log-a-Log looked hopeful. "Decided t' head back t' Redwall after all?"

"Nay. Got sumpthin' else in mind. An' I'll be takin' Mayk with me."

"Yah, I was just about t' ask what's to be done 'bout that fox. You got ideas on that, Broggs matey?"

"I'll make sure he never bothers no goodbeast again, don't you worry 'bout that."

Mayk, tied to a tree nearby, couldn't help overhearing. "Hey! You promised you'd let me live!"

Log-a-Log dealt the fox a swift kick in Mayk's uninjured leg. "Aw, shaddup, you villain! Nobeast's gonna slay ye!" The shrew glanced up at Broggen. "Um, that ain't whatcha had in mind, is it?"

"I'll not kill 'im," Broggen promised. "I'm a beast who keeps his word."

"Then where will you go?" asked Deakyne.

"Well, sir, I dunno if Log-a-Log or Lorr told you anything last night about why I left Redwall, but let's just say I'm lookin' t' set m'self up someplace where I won't cause nobeast trouble ever again. An' I figger, anyplace that'd be good 'nuff a hideaway fer me oughtta serve just as well fer a slaverbeast like Mayk. Well, I reckon I found exactly th' perfect place while we were on our way here."


	20. Chapter 49

Chapter Forty-Nine

Cyril went with Broggen, of course. He was bound and determined to stick by his stoat friend, even though that meant it would be just the two of them alone with Mayk.

The novice mouse could guess well enough where they were going. Making their final farewells to the Guosim and the clans of Deakyne and Neblett, Broggen led the way north, backtracking along the path they'd taken to reach the riverside. Retracing their steps was easy, since the passage of over two hundred creatures through dense woodlands tended to leave its mark. Mayk leaned on Broggen, hopping along on his good footpaw and mindful not to put any weight on his injured leg. Cyril brought up the rear, paw on his shortsword hilt in case the fox had second thoughts about remaining peaceful and cooperative.

As they walked, Broggen told Mayk all about Foxguard. The slaver fox (or former slaver fox, as the two Redwallers forced themselves to think of him) seemed plainly astounded by the idea of highly-trained members of his own species serving under a Badger Lord and living the lives of honorable goodbeasts.

"That's where I reckon you'll wanna go eventually," Broggen told the fox, "if'n they'll take ya. They're kinda picky 'bout who they take inta their ranks. But, if ye're really serious 'bout givin' up yer wicked ways an' tryin' t' be a goodbeast, an' you can learn how t' handle a sword halfway decent, they might accept you. They'll work you hard, no doubt, but you'll get fine clothes, a weapon, a roof over yer head an' soft bed t' sleep in ... not t' mention you'll never hafta worry 'bout where yer next meal's comin' from. You'll also learn fer th' first time in yer life what it's like t' have respect fer yerself, an' gain th' respect of other honest beasts. Take it from one who's been there, that can be th' best part o' th' deal."

"Um ... well, what about that Abbey place I've heard you talkin' 'bout? Sounds like I could get all that there too, an' not hafta worry 'bout whether I can swing a blade well enuff t' satisfy them soldier foxes. Not sure I'm really soldier material - gettin' up at th' crack o' dawn, trainin' nonstop, takin' orders ... 'sides, I'm an injured beast, an' ain't that where I should really go 'til I'm properly healed?"

Broggen shot Mayk a sharp glance. "You'd not be welcome at Redwall, trust me. An' as fer takin' orders, well, wasn't you always havin' t' take 'em from yer slavin' chief? This'll be no diff'rent, 'cept you'll be followin' orders fer th' cause o' good 'stead o' evil. You got two choices, plain 'n' simple: either Foxguard, or we'll leave you on yer own somewhere in th' middle o' Mossflower, an' see how far y' get then."

This shut Mayk up for the moment.

At their slow pace through the thick forest, it was nearly noon before they reached the abandoned badger cottage. Mayk's amber-red eyes went wide at the sight of the murder-tainted residence, and the realization that the stoat seemed to be stopping before it. "Wh-what are we doin' here?"

"This's gonna be our home fer awhile," Broggen said, "so get used t' the idea, chum."

"But ... but what about that Foxguard place? I thought you were takin' me there?"

"Foxguard's well north an' west o' here, an' on the other side o' th' River Moss t' boot. It'd be a journey o' many days even fer a beast who could walk normal. Ye're in no shape fer a trek like that, an' won't be until you've had half a season or thereabouts t' mend yerself. An' that works out just as well, since Foxguard's still bein' built. Don't expect it'll be finished 'fore th' first day o' summer, or so I heard. An' we wouldn't wanna walk in on 'em while their stronghold's only half-done an' they're all too busy concentratin' on gettin' it completed. So y' see, if we showed up there right now with you not even able t' walk on yer own, they'd prob'ly just laugh us outta there. But, if all you got's a slight limp when we come knockin', an' they're all set up 'n' lookin' fer new recruits, they'd be much more like t' take you in."

"Yeah, but ... here? Of all th' places we could settle in th' meantime ... "

"All what places? You know any other empty cottages in these parts that you ain't tellin' us about?"

"Well, no, but ... "

"Well, there y' go then. We know this place's got everything we'll need, an' we know its owners ain't gonna come back an' surprise us. It's off th' beaten path, so nobeast'll bother us while we're stayin' here ... an' just maybe stayin' here fer awhile will make you face up t' what you done, so that you'll never go back t' yer bad old ways again."

Mayk sighed, resigned to the fact that his options were exactly what Broggen had outlined. He'd not be going anywhere on his own, not without many days of convalescence, and he knew it. If the stoat had decided they were stopping here, then that was that. And if his decision was that they would dwell here for the remainder of the season, there was nothing Mayk could do about it. It wasn't like he could run off if he disagreed with these two. They weren't holding him as their prisoner, but they might as well have been.

"Right, then," Broggen went on, carefully lowering Mayk down onto his tail at the base of a stately oak so that the fox could sit with his back leaning against the wide trunk, "Cyril, you get yerself outta that heavy pack, an' I'll do likewise, an' then we'll enjoy ourselves a nice long lunch while we rest our weary legs 'n' backs. After that, we'll roll up our sleeves an' see to what needs doin'."

"Aren't we going inside to eat?" Cyril asked upon seeing that Broggen had already started to burrow into his provisions in preparation for their midday meal.

"Not just yet," Broggen answered. "There was murder committed in there, Cyril, an' even tho' Log-a-Log had us scrub it all out pretty good yesterday, t'was more of a mess than a few minutes' work can do proper justice to. I reckern it's gonna need some more cleanin' up 'fore we can think of movin' in. That'll be our job 'tween now an' sunset, since we'll wanna have it in shape fer sleepin' in tonight."

Cyril's healthy appetite momentarily faltered and quailed, but quickly reasserted itself; he had, after all, spent most of the morning marching with his heavy knapsack weighing upon his back and shoulders, and that was hungry-making work, as Montybank would say. Still, it somewhat unsettled him to be reminded of the crime that had been committed here - one of the perpetrators of which sat right alongside them - and the grisly evidence that had been left behind for them to find.

They took their time eating, then Broggen tackled the more refined cleanup while Cyril sat outside with Mayk, guarding the fox for all that he needed guarding. The mouse and slaver really didn't have much to talk about, and after awhile Cyril steeled himself to venture into the cottage to see whether he could lend the stoat a paw.

Broggen had fired up the wood-burning stove and put on several large kettles of water to boil, just as the Guosim had done the day before. The scalding water, together with some soap the badgers had kept in the cottage, worked wonders on getting the stone floor to look immaculate again. As Cyril stepped past the threshold, a low wave of warm suds washed over his sandaled footpaws. Broggen paused, leaning on the handle of the broom he was using to sweep out the cleaning water. "Ho, Cyril, didn't see ya there. Hope I didn't burn ya?"

"Oh, no. I've had baths that were quite a bit hotter than that."

"Well, it's plenty steamin' when I pour it down fer scrubbin'. Me paws must be red 'n' raw under th' fur by now. Good news is it seems t' be doin' th' trick. Time I get finished 'ere, you'll never know such a terrible thing happened in this room, not by sight ner smell."

This comment caused Cyril to sniff at the air, but thankfully all he could detect was the hot, moist odor of the soap. Broggen had pushed most of the furniture back against the far wall to avoid getting it wet. This main front area seemed to serve as both the dining room and den where the badger family and their infrequent guests (did they ever have any at all?) could gather for meals and relaxation. Needless to say, since the dwelling was scaled to badgerly dimensions, it struck Cyril as far more spacious than a mere hut, although that's what it must have been to the larger creatures.

His wandering gaze went to the ceiling ... where he happened to spy an errant dried blood spray that the Guosim had either missed or not bothered trying to reach, since it would have been far over their heads.

"This must have been ghastly," he muttered. "Worse than what happened to Cyrus, even."

"I imagine so ... tho' I wasn't there last summer t' see it fer meself. But a badger's a big beastie, an' it takes a lot t' slay one. This 'un gave them slavers a good fight, as you'd expect her to, seein' her son bein' dragged away in chains. An' I wager it took at least two or three of them foxes workin' t'gether t' bring her down ... mebbe all five of 'em. I ain't takin' it fer granted that Mayk's paws are free o' this blood, not by a long shot. That's one reason I wanna keep 'im from goin' anywhere near Redwall. Our friends there have had enuff misfortune this season, thanks t' me, an' I don't want any more droppin' in on them."

"Do you think we can trust Mayk?"

"Don't plan on leavin' it t' trust, Cyril lad. That fox is at our mercy 'til he can walk on 'is own, but even so I plan on lettin' no weapon come within his reach while he's with us. An' one reason I chose t' come here is 'cos th' smaller bedroom can be locked from without - noticed that when we came through here with th' Guosim. We'll be able t' shut him in at night when we retire, an' let him out in the mornin'. He won't be able t' smash his way free without causin' a ruckus that's sure t' wake us. I dunno 'bout you, but I'll sure sleep sounder knowin' that villain's under lock 'n' key."

"Then why are we keeping him with us, if you think he might be dangerous?"

Broggen heaved a sigh. "'Cos I spared 'is miserable, no-good life, an' that makes 'im my responserbility. I can't in good conscience leave him on 'is own, knowin' he'd not survive with that leg o' his. An' once he's healed well enuff t' get about on 'is own, I couldn't abide th' notion o' him hurtin' somebeast else. So it's gotta be Foxguard. Once I get Mayk into th' paws of his fellow foxes, I'll be done with my responserbility toward him. Whatever happens to him after that will be up t' him ... an' Andrus."

"Yes, but ... do you really want to stay here, after what happened? Can you?"

"Sure I can. These badger folk obviously liked livin' alone, away from others. That's how I gotta be from now on, Cyril. Findin' this place was like proverdence. The mother's dead, her son's gonna be up at Redwall, an' nobeast will be usin' this place. It's got ev'rything I'll need. As fer th' mess, good news is that all th' rest o' the house is clean. Mebbe a new coat o' whitewash on these walls out here ... an' some o' this furniture might hafta be chopped up fer firewood. Not as easy to clean dried blood off o' that as y' can a stone floor or plaster walls ... "

"Here, let me help ... " Cyril stepped across the soapy floor and took up an extra scrubbrush. "Um, do you think we should go over the walls again?"

"May's well. I reckern I've done this floor as much as I'm gonna. Prob'ly take a day or two t' dry out. But that's all right, since we'll only be usin' th' bedrooms. We can walk across a damp floor fer a couple days."

"It's like a steambath in here," Cyril commented. "That must've been really hot water you were using."

"Aye. An' it's gonna get steamier too, once we start on th' walls ... "

Cyril followed Broggen into the kitchen as the stoat went to fetch more hot water. "Broggen, when you came in here yesterday to help wrap that badgerwife's body, and you saw ... well, everything ... how could you stand it? Weren't you overwhelmed?"

"Gotta remember, I'm an old soldier, Cyril, an' a solider sees a lot o' death. Y' get used to it, so you can get on with what needs doin'."

"Even so, that must've been just about the worst thing you've ever seen."

"Nay, lad." Broggen's gaze grew distant, seeing far beyond the walls of the badger cottage. "Last summer at Salamandastron was a hunnerd times worse'n this."

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After much hard work, floor and walls were scrubbed and scoured far cleaner than the Guosim had left them the day before, making the cottage presentable and fit for occupancy. The stain on the ceiling would have to stay for now; their muscles were too tired and their paws too raw to continue. As long as the three of them remembered not to glance up while they were eating, they should be all right.

Broggen took several pieces of furniture that were stained the worst and carried them out around behind the cottage for disposal. Two of the dining table legs had to be polished clean, and the linen tablecloth was a total loss, bundled up and put out back with the soiled furnishings.

They took their evening meal outdoors again, enjoying the mild spring weather as dusk fell over the thick of Mossflower Woods around them. Broggen even lit a cookfire for them to sit around after twilight had deepened to full night, giving the cottage a little more time to dry out. At last, however, Broggen ventured inside with a blazing stick and lit up the small array of lamps and lanterns he'd assembled and prepared before daylight had failed. Once he'd distributed them throughout the hut to provide illumination in every room, he returned to the others and helped Mayk hobble his way into the smaller bedroom and get into bed, ever mindful of his fragile leg.

Broggen left a small lamp on the bedside nightstand, where Mayk could reach it without having to get up. As he withdrew from the room, the stoat shut the door and turned the key in its hole, locking the fox within. This did not escape Mayk's notice.

"Hey!" he protested through the closed door. "What's that for?"

"Yer own good, an' our peace o' mind, that's what it's fer," Broggen called back.

"But, what if I hafta get up durin' th' night?"

"Wouldn't recommend that, what with that leg o' yers. Just make sure y' don't drink too much 'fore hittin' th' sack each night, an' you should be fine. Lucky fer you, me 'n' Cyril are early risers. So don't worry, we'll have you outta there afore sunup."

Mayk started to lodge further objections, but Broggen sauntered down the short hallway to join Cyril in the master bedchamber, leaving the fox to himself.

The mouse and stoat had agreed to share the single large bed so that Mayk could be kept safely under lock and key in his own separate room. Fortunately, the bed they'd be sharing was - like everything else in the cottage - scaled for badgers, which meant that from their point of view it more resembled a vast cushioned platform than any kind of ordinary bed. The badgerwife must have slept here with her husband at one time, the wide mattress clearly designed to accommodate two of the oversized creatures. Lying down beneath the broad covers felt more like joining Broggen under an expanse of tent material than snuggling together under a single comforter. Indeed, there was room aplenty for both Cyril and Broggen to thrash about in their sleep if they wanted, without coming within arm's length of each other. They'd actually enjoyed closer quarters during some of their nights out under the stars than they would here.

Cyril, for his part, didn't mind this arrangement in the least. Even with the slaver fox locked in his room and lamed with his injury, Cyril felt reassured having Broggen at his side, where just a cry could have the stoat soldier instantly awake and battle-ready. Broggen's javelin stood propped against the head of his side of the bed, where he could snatch it in an eyeblink. Having a beast like Mayk under the same roof was cause aplenty for disquiet.

But the soft mattress conspired with the hard work he'd done that day to send Cyril off to sleep quickly, in spite of his concerns over Mayk. The last carefree thought that floated upon his dwindling awareness as he slipped into his nightly slumber was relief that they'd finally found someplace to settle down, and he wouldn't have to lug his back-straining knapsack all across Mossflower anymore.

00000000000

True to his word, Broggen arose before sunrise and made Mayk's bedcheck his first order of business. The fox seemed both relieved to have his limited, mostly-symbolic freedom restored to him, and irate at having been locked in his room in the first place. "Are ya gonna do that to me ev'ry night?"

"Count on it, friend," Broggen replied with a grin that reminded Mayk who was in charge here.

"That ain't very friendly-like, deprivin' a beast of his liberty."

"Funny thing fer a slaver to be sayin', ain't it? Tell you what: fer as long as ye're staying with us, you can either sleep outside with th' cottage doors locked t' keep you out, or sleep in here with this door locked t' keep you in. Yer choice."

"Um ... well ... this is a pretty comfy bed, even if it was fer that badger whelp."

Broggen helped Mayk out of his bed and into the bathing chamber where the fox could tend to his personal needs. The stoat swore then and there that his top priority for that day would be to craft a more comfortable crutch for Mayk so that the slaver could at least get around and support himself on his own well enough to see to his most basic business without assistance.

Cyril took his own turn in the bathroom when they were finished, then all three gathered outside under the fresh spring dawn for a breakfast of raspberry seedcakes and maple and cinnamon oatmeal. Broggen announced his intention that he and Cyril would remain outdoors for the remainder of the day, weather permitting, owing to the still-wet state of the main front room. Mayk, somewhat surprisingly, requested that he be returned to his bed.

"Reckon a long spell o' bedrest would be th' best thing fer my mendin' footpaw," he reasoned aloud.

"Aye, I reckern so," Broggen agreed.

"An' it is a bit chill out here. Last thing I need's a cold or fever on top o' not bein' able t' walk."

"Those beds are nice 'n' soft 'n' warm," Broggen nodded knowingly.

"Um, but it wouldn't mean you'd hafta bring me my meals. I wouldn't wanna put you out any ... "

Broggen waved a paw. "Don't mention it, matey. Ye're our guest 'til we getcha t' Foxguard. If that means servin' you meals in yer bed while ye're on th' mend, it'll be no great chore ... "

Broggen got Mayk back into his bed once they'd finished breakfast, then returned to the tree beneath which Cyril sat digesting his meal and sprawled himself down alongside the novice mouse. Cyril narrowed his eyes suspiciously toward the cottage. "Do you suppose Mayk's up to something?"

"Oh, yeah, he's up t' somethin'," Broggen chuckled. "Bein' a lazyboned lout! I've seen 'is kind before, Cyril lad. Only thing a beast like that craves more'n causin' sufferin' an' misery is pers'nal comfort. Can't be a thing he's ever known much of, runnin' 'round leadin' a slaver's life. I'm guessin' that th' more he grows accustermed t' soft livin', th' less likely he'll be t' cause us any mischief. It's like Lord Urthblood allers said: a beast who knows where its next meal's comin' from is much less like t' go troublin' others. That's largely how that badger tamed so much o' th' Northlands ... an' how I'm gonna tame Mayk. I'll serve that fox breakfast, lunch 'n' dinner in bed ev'ryday if he'll sit still fer it, 'til he gets so pampered he won't be able t' picture livin' life any other way!"

"Yeah, but what if he's got more in mind than letting us spoil him? Foxes are the craftiest of all beasts, you know ... "

"That's why I took ev'rything in there that could be used as a weapon an' locked it up in our room." Broggen patted his breast pocket. "Got th' key right here. Even if he feels like bravin' a stumble 'bout on that leg o' his, not much he could do."

"You didn't lock his bedroom door just now?"

"Naw. Figgered I'd only do that at night, so he doesn't get his snout all outta joint."

"Well, just don't lose that key then, or else we'll be sleeping outside while Mayk luxuriates in that nice warm bed of his!"

"Oh, not t' worry, Cyril. Even if'n I was t' lose it, I've allers been a fair paw at pickin' locks."

Cyril threw another glance at the cottage. "I just hope Mayk isn't too."


	21. Chapter 50

Chapter Fifty

Over the next couple of days, things settled into a kind of routine around the badger cottage. True to Broggen's prediction, Mayk decided that bed was the best place for him to be, and seemed determined not to leave it except when he absolutely needed to. This tendency toward sloth on the fox's part didn't stop Cyril and Broggen from locking Mayk in his room every night just as they'd originally planned. This meant that one of them had to be up at the crack of dawn each morning to unlock the door and check on their unwilling guest. It also meant that three meals a day had to be delivered to Mayk on a tray, an arrangement the fox seemed all too keen to perpetuate. Broggen usually saw to these tasks, since he didn't want Cyril to be alone with Mayk anytime such a thing could be avoided.

On that first day, after they'd gotten Mayk back to bed, Broggen took the crude crutch he'd first fashioned for the lamed slaver and added a top crosspiece to it, padded with a wrapping of linen cloth from the badgers' closets, that the fox could tuck under his arm for greater comfort and support. This allowed Mayk to manage by himself on those rare occasions when he did venture from his bed, so that his two attendants didn't have to come running for every little thing.

On their third evening at the cottage, Cyril took it upon himself to fetch two buckets of water from the clearwater spring in the nearby woods. Broggen had used up so much of their supply in his washing of the floors and walls that the rainbarrel out behind the hut was running low. Cyril volunteered for the task so that Broggen could stay with Mayk. The young mouse was getting a touch of cabin fever, being forced to live in and around the one small building, and relished the opportunity for stretching his legs and journeying a bit farther afield. Assuring his stoat companion that he could easily handle the double large pailfuls, Cyril set off with a bucket in each paw and his shortsword at his side. Here in the deep woods there was no telling what manner of creatures one might encounter, and it was best to be prepared.

The freshwater spring lay a fair distance from the cottage, far enough so that the forest totally swallowed it up long before Cyril reached the water source. He recalled the general vicinity of the spring from when the Guosim had first discovered it, but nevertheless made a point of mentally marking his way so he could retrace his steps to his new home even in the half-light of dusk.

And it was well that he did, for the task ended up taking far longer than he'd envisioned. No other creature bothered him or even so much as announced its presence, but like many youngbeasts his age Cyril had overestimated his abilities. Two brimful pails of water proved to be much heavier and a far greater strain on his arms and shoulders than Cyril had anticipated, and the effort of bearing them more than a few steps at a time quickly took its toll on the novice mouse. Cyril found it necessary to stop for a rest every dozen paces or so, setting the sloshing buckets on the ground and flexing his paws to reinvigorate them. As a result, the sun was long down by the time he came within view of the cottage once more. The warm lantern light spilling out the windows and open front door served as a friendly beacon in the murky gloom of the twilit forest.

Cyril paused in the long rectangle of radiance cast through the doorway, setting down the muscle-straining load for his final rest break. "Broggen, I'm back!" he called out, but no reply came. Shrugging, Cyril heaved up the water pails for one last effort and bore them around to the back of the cottage, where he emptied them into the rainbarrel.

Returning to the front door, he stepped into the yellow brightness of the main room and saw Broggen sitting at the table. "I really could've used a paw out there, Broggs. Hauling that water all the way back here turned out to be a lot harder than ... " Cyril's voice trailed off as he saw what stood on the table before the unusually quiet stoat.

The lone bottle of brandy in the cottage. And the stopper was out of the flask's narrow neck.

Broggen's imploring gaze was fixed on the mouse. "I couldn't stop m'self, Cyril. I was samplin' some apple cider fer dinner tonight, but it'd started fermentin', so it had th' same effect on me that ale would've. I ... I drank th' whole jug, an' then ... then I dug this out ... "

When they'd first settled at the cottage, Cyril went through every bottle, cask and jar of beverages in the house, tasting a few drops from each to determine which contained spirits and which would be safe for Broggen to drink. Once this was done, every vessel containing any trace of spirits, from the mildest ale to the strongest liquor, was poured out into the forest so as not to tempt fate. Over Broggen's objections, Mayk had convinced them to set aside a single flask of blackberry brandy, in case it was needed for medicinal purposes. The very same flask that now stood open before the forlorn-looking stoat.

Cyril hesitantly stepped forward and reached for the small bottle. Broggen made no move to interfere, and when the mouse picked it up he saw why. The flask was empty.

A chill ran down Cyril's spine. "Oh, Broggen, what have you done?"

"I ain't drunk," the stoat said. "It takes a lot more'n that t' get me even halfway 'neebriated. I ain't gonna go doin' anything nasty ... " His tone was both pleading and apologetic. "Cyril, y' gotta berlieve me, I ain't gonna hurt you. I'd never do that."

"I ... I believe you," Cyril said, his mind frantically racing to assess the situation. When Broggen had gotten drunk on Nameday, he'd passed through several distinct phases. At first he'd seemed reluctant and almost ashamed to be indulging - not that that had stopped him. Later, when the alcohol had really begun to affect him, he'd lost his inhibitions, becoming boisterous and carefree. It was only near the end, when he was slurring his speech badly and losing much of his coordination, that he'd grown truly belligerent and verminlike. Judging by what Cyril saw and heard now, he gauged that Broggen was still in the first phase. The novice mouse heaved an inward sigh of relief.

"It's all right, Broggen. You've drunk all the spirits we had left in the cottage, so there's nothing more. Unless some of the other cider's started to ferment ... "

Broggen shook his head morosely. "Naw, it ain't. I checked 'em."

"All of them?" Just how long was I gone? Cyril asked himself.

"Aye. Made a bit of a mess, 'm 'fraid."

"Well, that's okay," Cyril said with forced cheer. "Messes can always be straightened up later. The important thing is that you won't be drinking anything more. Um, why don't I go get dinner started? Maybe you'll feel better once you get some food in your belly ... "

"Don't feel much like eatin', Cyril."

"Oh. Well, I'm pretty hungry after hauling those water pails, so I'll cook up something that'll be enough for the three of us. That way, if you change your mind you can help yourself. And if not, Mayk and I can just have seconds."

"Sure. That sounds fine. Good thinkin', that." Broggen's tone was as dull as his empty gaze, which stayed fastened on the vacant spot on the table where the brandy bottle had stood.

Worried, Cyril ambled into the adjoining kitchen ... and came to a shocked standstill at the sight that greeted him. The cottage was simple affair, with no basement or cellar, so all the beverages were stored in a deep alcove alongside the food supplies, across the kitchen from the oven and counters. Now the floor there was nearly impassible. Every vessel that had held drink of any kind lay strewn and tumbled across the flagstones, many of the glass and pottery containers shattered into fragments and soaking the floor with their fragrant contents. The fruity aromas of apple, cherry, strawberry, raspberry, damson, pear and peach mingled into a punch bouquet that assailed Cyril's nostrils. The smell would have been a pleasant one under almost any other circumstances, but now it only served to tighten the knot in his stomach.

Things were worse than he'd thought. Broggen must have been frantic, to have wreaked such havoc in the short time the mouse had been gone.

Cyril gingerly picked his way through the chaos, the thick soles of his sandals crunching on glass and clay shards and squelching in the continuous slick of spilled fruit juices. He kept his tail raised so that it wouldn't drag through the mess or get cut on a sharp edge. A few of the sturdier bottles had failed to smash apart, along with the various larger wood casks and kegs, and some of these Cyril had to nudge aside to make his way across the floor. Once he obtained a clear view into the pantry alcove, he could indeed see that not a single keg or bottle remained upon the shelves. Every vessel which had held drink of any kind had been thrown onto the floor in the stoat's mad frenzy to uncover more spirits.

Cyril's shocked gaze fell to the empty brandy flask still clutched absently in his paw. "Oh, Broggen ... " he murmured.

Heavy pawsteps sounded behind the young mouse, but instead of growing louder they faded away. Cyril hurried back out to the main room, only to find it empty. Thinking Broggen might have gone to sleep out his mini-binge, Cyril rushed to the rear of the cottage and poked his head into the master bedroom, but here too there was no sign of the stoat. A feeling of foreboding began to rise within him as he raced into the bathing chamber and found it likewise unoccupied.

Passing by the bedrooms on his way back along the short hallway, Cyril paused at Mayk's door. It was closed, the key in the lock. Cyril gave the knob a turn, but it wouldn't budge. Even though he knew Broggen couldn't be inside, he twisted the key and let himself in anyway.

Mayk sat propped up against his pillows, eyes staring widely out of the island of light cast around him by the solitary lamp on his bedside table.

"Oh, it's you," the fox said once he discerned it was Cyril standing behind the half-opened door. "What th' fur happened out there? That stoat came in here with a crazed look in 'is eye, then he goes an' locks me in even tho' it ain't dinnertime yet! An' then it sounds like 'ee's trashin' th' whole place, tryin' t' pull it down around our ears! What's goin' on?"

"Um ... Broggen's having a bit of a hard time just at the moment. But don't worry, it's going to be all right." Cyril hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt. "Uh ... why don't you just stay right there, and we'll get you some dinner soon." The novice mouse withdrew, closing and locking Mayk's door once more. He could hear the fox protesting against being locked in again and demanding to know more details about the crisis at paw, but Cyril ignored him. Broggen was his main concern right now, and he didn't need an anxious slaverbeast wandering about unsupervised to complicate matters.

Rushing through the front room, Cyril grabbed up a lantern and ran out into the deepening night. His stoat friend was clearly nowhere in the cottage, so therefore he must have gone outside. He only hoped Broggen had not caved into his despair entirely and run off into the deep woods. Cyril would be lost before he'd gone a hundred paces.

Hoping against hope, he did the logical thing in this most illogical of situations and started out by circling the cottage to make sure Broggen was nowhere in the immediate vicinity. Much to his relief he encountered the wayward stoat back behind the house, but his relief quickly turned to alarm when he saw what Broggen was doing.

The larger creature was down on all fours, sniffing and snuffling at the ground. Cyril realized with a sinking feeling that it was the exact spot where they'd poured out all the alcoholic beverages two nights ago. He refrained from venturing close enough to tell whether Broggen might actually have been lapping at the long-dry earth with his tongue.

Noticing the approaching lamplight, Broggen sat up and looked at Cyril, beret more askew than usual and his expression even more forlorn than before. "It's really all gone, ain't it?"

"Come inside, Broggen. Please."

The stoat glanced around at the evening forest. "Y' don't s'pose them badgers kept any extra drink stashed out here anywheres? Honey ale buried in a keg, blackberry brandy hid 'neath some bushes, damson wine stashed in th' root forks o' some tree ... "

"Broggen, you're not making any sense! Why would they have done that?"

"I gotta have more, Cyril."

"But there isn't any more!"

"I know ... I know." Broggen took a deep breath. "But I gotta keep lookin'." Before Cyril could argue further, the unreasoning stoat grabbed the lantern out of Cyril's paw and plunged into the underbrush, scanning the ground beneath the low-hanging branches and pawing at the moss and dirt between the trees.

The mouse simply stood dumbfounded at this irrational display, utterly at a loss. At length he turned to go back inside. "I'm going to make dinner for me and Mayk. We'll save some for you, whenever you're ready," he announced, then left Broggen to his pointless searching.

The kitchen was such a mess that Cyril couldn't even think of starting on the evening meal until he'd done at least a little straightening up. Determining which casks and bottles were still intact, he made sure they were properly sealed and replaced them on the storage alcove's shelves. Nearly all were sticky with fruit juice residue, but Cyril would worry about wiping them down some other time. Next he gathered up all the broken bits and pieces of glass and crockery and piled them in one corner where they would at least be out of the way while he rustled up something for dinner. They could be carried outside tomorrow and disposed of someplace far enough from the cottage so that the three creatures would not be plagued by swarms of files and bees attracted by the sticky sweetness.

Examining the floor closely as he plucked up the smaller fragments, Cyril couldn't help but notice his sandal prints in the setting sheen of fruit drink, and he realized he must have tracked the stuff all throughout the cottage during his quest for Broggen. It was a good thing all the floors were stone. With a shudder Cyril told himself that a little sticky fruit juice would be much easier to clean up than a sea of blood.

As he was finishing his clean-up chores - and still debating what to prepare for dinner - Cyril heard somebeast enter the front room. He hastened out to make sure it was Broggen returning and not some unwelcome visitor.

The familiar stoat stood alongside the dining table, where he'd set the lantern. His expression was that of a lost child, bewildered and perturbed and perhaps just a little scared. But no anger or menace showed in his face, and a calm seemed to have come over him, dispelling his earlier manic attitude.

"Didn't find anything out there, did you?" Cyril asked with forced lightness.

"Nay, not out there ... " Broggen shook his head dully. "But mebbe in here ... "

Before Cyril could fully process what he was seeing, Broggen had disappeared back toward the bedrooms. The mouse, sandals sticking and peeling against the stone floor, rushed after him to find Broggen throwing open one closet door after another and hurling their contents onto the floor as he rifled through their shelves. Blankets, linens, pillows and pillowcases, washcloths, sheets, bandages and medicinal herbs, shirts and coats and cloaks all piled up around Broggen's ankles as he swept them aside in his desperate quest for the one thing that was not there to be found. Once all the hall closets had been ransacked and their shelves cleared in vain, Broggen stormed into the master bedroom and began his chaotic rummaging anew in there, going so far as to strip the covers off the mattress and tip the entire oversized bed onto its side in a display of strength that left Cyril's mouth agape. The young mouse didn't even contemplate trying to interfere. Broggen's expression during all this remained stony and vacant, almost casually at ease, as if he wasn't even aware of how bizarre his behavior was or that anything here was out of the ordinary.

When he was finished in the master bedroom, Broggen moved on to Mayk's room.

Now, as he saw the stoat unlocking the fox's door, Cyril did jump forward to intervene. If Broggen was going to carry on his irrational search in there ...

Unfortunately, Cyril didn't reach Broggen's side until both stood over Mayk's bed. The fox stared up at Broggen with apprehensive dread, unsure what to expect.

"Get up," Broggen ordered.

"N-no. I ain't gettin' up!" Mayk said defiantly, cowering with his bed covers drawn up to his chin as if that might protect him.

Cyril tugged at Broggen's sleeve, a child desperate to get his parent's attention. "Stop this, right now!" he implored as sternly as he could. "You know you're not gonna find anything in here. You know it. So don't bother Mayk with this. Come on out of here, and leave him alone ... "

With a blank look on his face, Broggen allowed Cyril to urge him slowly, step by grudging step, toward the bedroom door. They'd almost reached the threshold when the stoat's face grew suddenly resolved. Turning back into the room, as if he'd forgotten something, Broggen casually walked over to Mayk's bed and overturned it with one heave, fox and all, spilling Mayk out onto the floor in a tangle of sheets and blankets. The slaver howled, although whether it was in pain or indignation was not immediately apparent.

Not knowing what else he should do, Cyril rushed around to the far side of the bed to see if he could assist their displaced patient. Mayk wrestled frantically to extricate himself from beneath the jumble of covers and the upended mattress leaning over him. Cyril helped the fox onto his feet - or foot, as was the case - even as he passed Mayk his crutch so that the slaver could stand on his own. "Are you okay?" Cyril asked anxiously. "You didn't land on your injured footpaw, did you?"

Mayk's gaze was firmly fastened on Broggen, not the mouse who'd come to his aid. "He's gone mad! Crazy! Cracked in th' head! Uh, what? Naw, I landed on my side, lad. Think I may've bruised a rib or three ... "

"You hear that, Broggen?" Cyril chastised the stoat. "You could have hurt Mayk! You could have hurt him very badly!"

But Broggen didn't seem to hear at all. Having satisfied himself that there was no ale, brandy, wine or rum hidden within or beneath Mayk's bed, he'd turned his attention to the room's closet, tearing every article and item off the shelves.

Walking with the aid of his crutch, Mayk stumped his way toward the bedroom door, making sure to give the stoat a wide berth. "I'm not stayin' in th' same room with that madbeast!" Cyril was in no position to stop the fox from hobbling out into the hall, and Broggen was too preoccupied in his private daze to even notice.

Cyril decided he'd better go after Mayk to keep an eye on the slaver; he certainly wasn't doing Broggen any good here, since no words of his seemed able to penetrate the stoat's mania. As he reached the doorway, he paused to glare at Broggen's back. "You could have hurt Mayk badly ... just like you did to Sister Aurelia."

Even this seemed to have no effect. Cyril sighed and went off to find Mayk.

The fox sat at the dining table, his bandaged leg stretched out before him to avoid putting any weight on it, crutch leaning against the table within easy reach. "What's goin' on with 'im?" Mayk demanded of Cyril.

"Broggen's got a problem with drink. Once he gets a taste of spirits, he can't stop himself from having more ... even if there is no more to be had, apparently. I'm sorry, Mayk - I never thought he'd do anything like this. But don't worry, he's a goodbeast at heart. I'm sure he wouldn't hurt us."

Cyril's words did little to reassure Mayk. "Oh yeah? I saw 'im slay three o' me mates easy as y' please! An' I heard when you was talkin' with those shrews, 'bout how this stoat murdered yer Abbey's healer mouse! He's a killer!"

"He's not a murderer!"

"Yeah? Well, some o' yer friends seem t' disagree, from what I could see ... "

Broggen chose that moment to saunter into the main room from the back of the cottage. In his upheld paw he held a heavy hammer.

Mayk was up on his foot and crutch in a heartbeat. "Yaagh! He's gonna kill us! Bash our skulls in!"

The fox's words didn't seem to register on the stupified stoat. "Mebbe ... mebbe they hid it in th' walls," Broggen muttered as he drew back his arm to deliver a punishing blow to the vertical surface before him. The hammer smashed a huge hole in the wall plaster.

This escalation in the stoat's violent behavior terrified even Cyril. It wasn't violence directed at any living beast but this made it no less frightening, and Cyril began to fear that just maybe Broggen would hurt anybeast who got in his way in his present unthinking state. And so, when Mayk declared, "He's gonna bring th' whole house down 'round us!" and made to escape out into the night, Cyril found himself following on the fox's tail.

Standing in the trees around the cottage, both could still hear the racket of Broggen hammering additional holes in the walls. Full night held sway over the woodlands, the forest black beyond the warm yellow glow spilling out from the door and windows. But their one refuge was no refuge at all, not with the rampaging beast inside.

"I ain't livin' with that one! I ain't stayin' here!"

Cyril was about to ask Mayk what choice he really had when the slaver shot out his free paw and snatched the shortsword out of the mouse's belt. "Hey!" Cyril shouted. "Log-a-Log lent me that blade! Give it back!"

"I ain't goin' out inta th' night forest without a weapon. An' since you took alla mine ... "

"I said give it back!" Cyril practically snarled, and lunged for his stolen property.

Mayk swung the sword at the angry young mouse. Only an abrupt halt on Cyril's part kept the blade from slicing his throat wide open; he actually felt the swordtip brush his neck fur as it swept past him.

"Don't come after me, whelp, or I'll kill you!" Even with one leg lamed and one paw occupied by his crutch, Mayk was still dangerous, quite capable of handling a weapon with deadly skill. Clutching the shrew shortsword in his free paw, Mayk hobbled off into the trees, where he quickly faded into the night. Cyril simply stood staring after him, stunned by how narrowly he'd just escaped death.

After awhile, Cyril sank down with his back to an elm, emotionally drained. His only friend within a half-day's march in any direction had slipped beyond reason, and the only other creature he might have been able to depend upon had just stolen his weapon and tried to kill him. Never in his life had he felt so alone. He wished he was back at Redwall, with Cyrus and all his friends, safe and snug in his bed and waiting to wake up to the wonderful aroma of Friar Hugh's fresh-baked breakfast breads and pastries wafting up from the kitchens.

The only slim consolation in all of this was the mild and dry spring night. Cyril could keep his outdoor seat for as long as he wanted - or at least until he could make his overloaded brain think straight again.

That moment of clarity came halfway to midnight, when Cyril realized quite some time had elapsed since he'd last detected any sounds of destruction coming from within the cottage. Climbing stiffly to his feet, he picked his way to the open doorway and peered within.

Broggen sat with his back against the wall and his legs drawn up to him. He looked much as he had in his cellar room prison after learning he'd killed Sister Aurelia. All around him lay a scene of unparalleled wreckage. Over a dozen large holes had been knocked in the walls, some so big that Cyril could almost have walked through them, had they actually led anywhere. Chunks of dismembered plaster lay about the floor like misshapen, pale corpses, and plaster dust coated everything. Most of the furniture had been overturned, and any furnishing with cushions or padding had been ripped apart, adding their fillings to the panorama of destruction. The place, quite simply, looked unlivable, a disaster area.

Broggen gazed up at Cyril with wide, sad eyes. "I'm so sorry, Cyril ... "

"Are you ... are you finished?" Cyril ventured, not certain what else to say. Broggen nodded, but said nothing. The novice mouse threaded his way through the upheaval and sat down right alongside the stoat.

"I'm sick, Cyril," Broggen whimpered.

"I know."

"Just look at what I done ... "

"You couldn't help yourself. Like you said, you're sick. It's not anything you have any control over."

"I coulda hurt you, Cyril."

"But you didn't." Cyril was silent a moment, then asked, "Is this gonna happen again?"

Broggen shook his head. "Not unless spirits pass me lips again."

"Then we've turned the corner," said Cyril. "There's no more liquor here, and from now on I'll do all the fruit juice sampling to make sure it's not starting to ferment."

"You ... you can't be serious 'bout wantin' t' stay 'ere? Jus' look 'round us - I've ruined ev'rything!"

"First thing tomorrow, we'll mix up some plaster and fill in these holes. Then we'll throw out whatever can't be repaired, an' straighten up what can, put everything back in its proper place, swab the floors clean ... I'm not gonna leave you alone, Broggen. Not like this. I didn't come with you just so I could go running back to Redwall at the first sign of trouble, or to abandon you when you needed me most."

Broggen gazed down at Cyril. "What happened t' yer sword?"

"Mayk grabbed it off me and ran away into the woods. Said he wasn't gonna stay here with you acting that way. Do you think we ought to go after him?"

Broggen considered the question. "Naw," he answered at length. "He'll either come back t' us, or he won't. No sense chasin' after him."

"Okay." Cyril heaved an inward sigh of relief. The way he and Mayk had parted company, he would be quite content if he never set eyes on the slaver fox again.

"But we'll make sure t' keep th' door locked at night from now on," Broggen added.


	22. Chapter 51

Chapter Fifty-One

Three days after departing from the riverside settlement of Deakyne's mice and Neblett's voles, the Guosim reached the site where the searat submarine was moored. The vista that met their astonished eyes there was one they could scarcely believe.

The very nature of the landscape along the streambank had been transformed since Log-a-Log had left the searat vessel in the care of the Toor otters. The wandering shrews could scarcely accept that this was the same place. Hundreds of trees had been felled, turning this area of the forest into a vast open clearing. All the stumps and surface roots had been dug up, along with all shrubs, vines, moss and even most of the grass, leaving a wide expanse of bare, sun-baked earth. The very ground itself had not escaped alteration, the terrain levelled so that every rise and hillock had been torn down and every dip and depression filled in. A huge artificial plain, nearly as big as Redwall and all of its grounds, lay where forest had once stood, the flat foundation upon which a fortress was being built.

As impressive as it was to think that this drastic alteration in the natural shape of the land had been wrought by the paws of their fellow creatures, the Guosim were more shocked than anything. They were denizens of wood and stream, long accustomed to living with nature rather than in defiance of it ... and this denuding of the forest almost struck them as a slap to the face of Mossflower Woods.

Of course, the space before them was hardly bare and empty. A veritable army of Northland shrews - more shrews than there were in the total company of the Guosim itself, to judge at a glance - bustled and toiled around the timber skeleton of an immense, multistory structure, one that amazingly enough looked like it would accommodate every shrew present and many more besides, once it was finished.

"Great seasons!" Log-a-Log muttered to himself, paused at the head of his column at the clearing's edge. "'Tween that fort Urthblood's buildin' fer his foxes up near Redwall an' this shrew mansion 'ere, that badger's turnin' all of Mossflower inta his own pers'nal army reservation!"

"You c'n say that again, matey!"

It was not one of the multitude of Northland shrews who stepped out of the trees to officially greet the Guosim, but a rather tall and sturdy otter dressed in a simple woodland jerkin. Log-a-Log broke into a huge grin at the sight of the waterbeast. "Neskyn, ya ol' riverwalloper! So y' didn't let all these nasty liddle bossywhiskers drive you off, eh?"

"Hah, you got them tagged right, so ye do!" the Toor otter chief laughed as he stooped down to embrace his shrew counterpart. "They marched right in here when spring was but a few days old, givin' all us riverdogs a great big 'thanks fer keepin' this spot warm fer us and see ya later.' Told us t' get lost in so many words. Now that they was 'ere they didn't need us 'round anymore, an' they wasn't shy 'bout tellin' us so. An' only after we'd relocated from our home upriver an' froze our rudders off lookin' after that ratboat all winter, those ungrateful liddle martinets!"

"Aye, they could use a lesson or three in graciousness," Log-a-Log readily agreed. "We been gettin' a bellyful o' their attitude from th' ones who came by the Abbey ... all of who made it 'ere, by th' look of it. But, did I hear y' say th' first of 'em only arrived 'round the start of th' season?"

"That they did," Neskyn confirmed. "Around two or three score of 'em, in logboats from th' sea. Th' rest all straggled down in dribs 'n' drabs in the days that followed. Why? You sound surprised ... "

The shrew chieftain shook his head in amazement. "I just can't get over all these woods gettin' cleared an' levelled since th' start o' spring. How'd they get it done so fast?"

"Well, fer one thing, there's a lot o' th' liddle buggers, in case you ain't noticed. When that many shrews get t' doin' something with a sense o' purpose, not much they can't get done, I reckon. Why, jus' look at that fancy bridge you was tellin' me you got built last spring - that took you, what, less'n a fortnight, from th' time you first set blade t' wood to bein' able t' stump across its span? An' speakin' o' which, is that crazy bankvole travellin' with you this year? Ho, yes, I sees him now. Ahoy there, Lorr matey!"

"Hello, Skipper Neskyn! How are you? Fine, I hope, yes?"

"Fine as yore coat is long!" Neskyn turned back to face the rising shrew structure in the middle of the deforested clearing. "Kinda saddens me heart, seein' so many healthy trees chopped down in their prime."

"Most squirrels I know would call it a crime," said Log-a-Log, "an' I knows a fair share o' squirrels."

"Yup - lotsa good wood came down here. Well, at least it ain't goin' t' waste, as ye can see. Come on, an' I'll introduce you to th' head honcho hereabouts ... "

The Guosim received many stares as Neskyn led their column out into the clearing - mostly curious, but a few mildly resentful, as if this was a place meant only for some shrews and not others.

Log-a-Log could not help but notice that the diminutive Northlanders were the only creatures to be seen. "You th' only otter here, Nesk?"

"A couple others lazin' about here somewheres. Most o' Clan Toor headed back upriver once it came clear we wasn't wanted 'round here, but I felt there oughta be one or two o' us stationed 'ere t' keep an otterly eye on things. Ah, there's th' Cap'n over yonder, unless me own otterly eye deceives me. A lot o' these Northland shrews all look alike t' me - 'specially when there's so many of 'em millin' about like this." Neskyn raised a flipper to hail one of the Northlanders. "Ahoy there, Cap'n Tardo!"

The shrew who turned at the call did indeed resemble most of his fellows to an uncanny degree. Log-a-Log had to silently agree with Neskyn; without colored headbands or distinctive clothing to distinguish them, even he would have some trouble telling all these shrews from the north apart.

The one Neskyn had addressed as Tardo marched over to greet the otter and the Guosim. "Well, what 'ave we 'ere? Come t' lend a paw?"

"Nay, friend, we're just passin' through. Looks to me like you don't need any help. I'm Log-a-Log, an' these're my Guosim - the Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower."

"Cap'n Tardo, o' Lord Urthblood's forces. I'm th' one in charge o' this whole rigamarole!" The two shrew leaders shook paws briskly. "Been hearin' 'bout you woodland rogues. Wondered whether we might see you by this way sometime this season or next."

"Well, wonder no more. So, whatcha buildin' here?"

Captain Tardo swept an arm out and back to indicate the massive framework rearing into the sky behind him. "Log, 'tis my pleasure t' present to you ... Doublegate!"

"Doublegate?" The Guosim chieftain raised his eyebrow, as much at being called "Log" as at the fortress name. "I don't see _any_ gates."

"Well, give it time, matey! We ain't been workin' on th' structure itself fer but a few days! Hadta get th' ground all cleared an' th' timber cut first."

"Yeah, ya sure did that right 'nuff," Log-a-Log muttered.

Tardo ignored the other's grumbling. "What ye're lookin' at now is just th' main structure, or th' frame of it anyways. When it's done, there'll be three barracks levels able t' sleep upta five hunnerd shrews at a time, along with a mess hall, an armory, kitchens, storerooms an' workshops, all under one roof! No company o' shrews has ever had a garrison like this'll be! Good thing we're smallbeasts - if we hadta scale this fer otters or even squirrels, we wouldn't have it finished 'til winter!"

"Impressive," Log-a-Log admitted. "But I still don't see where th' name Doublegate comes in."

"Well, once we get th' main building itself finished, or mostly finished at any rate, we'll be puttin' up not one but two outer stockade walls, one inside th' other. The main gate of one'll face inland while th' second will face th' river, so anybeast who wants in will hafta pass through one, walk around to th' opposite side o' th' fort an' come in that way. Needless t' say, both walls will have ramparts fer lookouts, archers an' slingers. Even if an enemy did somehow manage t' breach th' outer gate, they'd find themselves pinned 'tween th' outer an' inner walls, where we could pick 'em off at our leisure. It's Lord Urthblood's design, y' know."

"Yeah, that figgers. The design's kinda got that badger's pawprints all over it, based on some o' his other plans I've seen ... "

"We may hafta cut some more trees t' finish th' walls," Tardo continued. "That's what all them pines're doin' stacked up an' set aside over yonder. Their tall, straight trunks make th' best timber fer a high wall. Don't think that's enuff t' circle th' compound twice, tho'."

Various grumbles arose from within the Guosim ranks at this announcement. "Don'tcha think ye've cut down quite 'nuff of 'em already?" Log-a-Log asked sourly.

Tardo scowled. "We'll cut down as many's as needed. This land's been designated as a military reservation by His Lordship, an' we'll do what we hafta t' make his garrison battle-ready by summer. We're at war, in case ye ain't've heard."

"Yah, well, all I can say is I'm glad I don't hafta live 'round here. The scenery ain't what it used t' be ... "

Lorr had wandered away from the Guosim column to take a look at the architectural plans for Doublegate, which lay spread out over a large rock. The Northland shrews in the vicinity shuffled aside curiously and watched as the eccentric bankvole pored over the diagrams, his snout almost touching the vellum and his spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose. "Fascinating ... ingenious ... clever, very clever, yes yes ... "

Tardo hooked a pawthumb over his shoulder toward Lorr. "What's his story?"

"Oh, he's somebeast we picked up on our journeying last year. Real inventor type, always dreamin' up things in that big head o' his. We brought 'im this way so he could poke around inside that searat contraption some more, an' get a gander at what ye're buildin' here. He was plannin' on stayin' even after we move on, if'n y' don't mind havin' him 'round. Wouldn't surprise me t'all if he ends up improvin' yer designs, or helpin' you figger things out as y' go along."

"Sure, we could put 'im up, I s'pose," said Tardo. "But the searat craft's off-limits. It's restricted."

Log-a-Log couldn't believe his ears. "But ... Lorr was down in it last summer! We were with Urthblood when he found th' waterlogged thing!"

"Can't help what went on here before I was assigned 'ere. I got my orders. An' if you ain't a member of Lord Urthblood's forces, sworn to him as yer commander, then ye ain't gettin' inta that searat boat."

Log-a-Log puffed out his tiny chest. "My son Pirkko was held prisoner on that fur-forsaken scumbucket, an' I'd like t' see th' beast who'd stop me from climbin' aboard if I got it in my mind t' do just that!"

Tardo was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable, but was not about to yield. All around them his Northland brethren had stopped what they were doing, pausing in their work to watch this verbal confrontation and rush to their captain's aid if it went beyond the merely verbal.

"You challengin' me?" Tardo asked.

"Up to you, friend," Log-a-Log returned. "I know ye're here t' help us against searats, but we Mossflower beasts are freedom-loving creatures, an' we bridle 'gainst anybeast who tries t' tell us where we can an' can't go. An' if you got notions o' gettin' too big fer yer britches, lemme remind you that you're guests in our territory, an' if we don't like yer attitude we can kick yer tails all th' way back to th' Northlands!"

Tardo drew in a deep, slow breath. "I was given t' unnerstand that after Lord Urthblood rescued yer son from th' clutches o' Tratton's searats summer last, you considered each other allies, an' I could count on yer cooperation. Do you still honor th' Lord who saved yer son, or not?"

"Respectin' Lord Urthblood an' respectin' you are two diff'rent things," Log-a-Log said. "An' if y' got a sergeant by name o' Fryc somewhere 'round here, mebbe you could have a word or three with him 'bout how _not_ t' go about earnin' th' respect o' decent creatures. There's a reason he's not welcome at Redwall anymore."

This caught Tardo by surprise. "Fryc? Not welcome at Redwall?"

"Fergot t' tell ya that when 'e got here, did he? Well, if he won't give you th' details o' that sorry incident, I'll be more'n happy t' provide 'em in full."

Tardo turned on his fellow Northlanders. "What're you all starin' at? Nobeast called a rest break! We got a fort t' build! Now get back t' work!"

This instantly defused the situation, as Tardo's berated underlings tore their attention away from the confrontation and returned to their various construction tasks. The shrew captain came forward and put a companionly paw around Log-a-Log's shoulder, leading him a few steps away from the nearest Guosim so they could speak privately.

"Lissen, matey," Tardo said in a conciliatory tone, "I've only been captain fer less'n half a season, 'cos my own cap'n got killed in battle. I just came from a place where I was pickin' up my own dead in bits an' pieces. You know what it's like walkin' along th' beach gatherin' up arms an' legs an' tails - an' heads, even - of beasts who used t' be yer friends an' comrades, just so they can be piled inta a common grave an' given some kind o' decent burial t' keep th' scavenger birds an' sandbugs from pickin' their bones clean?"

Log-a-Log paled at this word picture. "Nay, can't say that I have ... "

"Y'see, I ... ain't ... yer ... enemy. I already got one o' those, one with a weapon that can drop outta th' sky an' pound the earth like a giant hammer, tearin' beasts limb from limb. An' I'm dedercated t' fightin' that enemy however I can. We can't be squabblin' like this, you 'n' me. We're on th' same side. So what say we start over again, an' let those few terse words we traded earlier be water under th' bridge?"

"Lorr's welcome to stay with ye?"

"As welcome as my own brother would be!"

"An' you'll let 'im tinker 'round down in that searat ship all he wants?"

Tardo hesitated. "Tell ya what. Lord Urthblood's falcon captain Klystra flies pretty regular runs 'tween here an' Salamandastron. I can put in a request, an' if His Lordship gives the okay, Lorr can live down there fer all I care ... "

"Well, I s'pose he can keep 'imself occupied with this monstrosity ye're buildin' here until Urthblood gives his go ahead. Once you get used t' his odd manner, you'll enjoy havin' him around. An' he can be a great help with things, sometimes when ye're least expectin' it. Just promise me ye'll watch after 'im. Kinda got t' thinkin' of him as one of our own over these past few seasons ... "

"Oh, he'll be safe with us," Tardo assured Log-a-Log. "There's nearly two hundred shrews here, with more on th' way, an' our main loghouse will be roofed over 'fore you know it. If Lorr can stand us, we can surely stand him!"

00000000000

Deltus and his two companion Barrenoak squirrels flashed through the treetops on their way back to their home drey. They'd left Redwall that morning after spending the night at the Abbey, enjoying the best hospitality those gentle folk had to offer. Abbess Vanessa had greatly appreciated of the news of Cyril and Broggen, and accepted the orphaned squirrel and badger youths into their community without question or hesitation. Deltus had gotten to know the squirrelchild fairly well on their journey north to Redwall, and had been tempted to invite him to join the Barrenoak clan as an adopted member. But finally Deltus figured that after seeing his parents slain and spending time chained up in a slave line, the youngster was entitled to a few seasons of ease and happiness amongst creatures who could provide greater comfort than the stark living of the Barrenoak tribe.

Leaping and racing from branch to branch in the leaf-mottled midday sun, Deltus was not so preoccupied with his progress that he failed to keep a watchful eye out on the forest floor below them. Living in the wilder depths of Mossflower had taught him to be forever vigilant, both in defense of the drey itself and while out on patrol. And so it was that Deltus saw Mayk hobbling his way through the forest before the slaver fox noticed him.

The squirrel chieftain instantly flattened himself against the wide limb beneath him, throwing up a paw to halt his two fellows and emitting a sharp whistle of alert that was sufficiently birdlike that it would blend into the background woodland noise without attracting the attention of the fox. Sure enough, Mayk passed directly under the trio of stilled squirrels seemingly oblivious to their presence.

Deltus stealthily turned about on his branch, following the slaver with his anger-narrowed gaze. "Did you see that?" he hissed to his comrades. "That villain was wearin' the shrew shortsword young Cyril was carryin'. He must've murdered that poor mouse an' stolen it!"

"But, he was with that stoat, an' all those shrews," said one of the others. "How'd a crippled fox overcome all of 'em an' make off with that blade?"

"Dunno. Maybe he lured Cyril away from the others, slew him an' hid the body." Deltus scanned the woods in the direction from which Mayk had come. "No signs of pursuit ... an' that brushtail didn't look like he was worried 'bout anybeast on his heels. Must figure he's given them the slip. Looks like it's up to us to bring this vermin to justice, fellas!"

"Are we gonna interrogate him?"

"To what purpose? A beast like that probably couldn't tell th' truth if he tried! No, we have to assume the worst ... and make sure that his days of terrorizing innocent goodbeasts end today!" With jaw grimly set in determination and a cold light in his eye, Deltus crept off through the treetops after the fox.

Moments later, Mayk drew to a halt, aware of a rustling in the forest canopy somewhere above him. He paused, leaning upon his stoat-built crutch and searching through the leafy branches as he reached for his stolen sword.

Three of Deltus's throwing knives flashed out of the arboreal cover in lightning succession, each finding its mark with expert precision. Mayk never knew what hit him. He fell to the ground, stilled forever.

The other two Barrenoak squirrels arrived to find their chief standing over the slain fox, the shrew shortsword in his paw. "Aye," he nodded sadly as he examined the weapon, "this is indeed Cyril's sword, as I feared. I do not favor the chances that he lives still. No warrior, or aspiring warrior, would allow his blade to be taken without a fight. For all we know, this blackheart might've killed Cyril and Broggen both, ransacked their supplies an' run off laughin' about it."

"Doesn't look like he had time to grab much of anything," one of the others observed. "This beast was travellin' as light as any creature could in the deep wood. Well, whatever his tale was, he's taken it to Dark Forest with him."

Deltus gazed southward. Since he'd parted ways with Cyril, Broggen and the Guosim before they'd embarked to return Pryle and the others to their families, he naturally could not know that the shrews had continued on their way south while the mouse and stoat had settled into the abandoned badger cottage with Mayk. Deltus didn't even know about that homestead, since it lay well outside Barrenoak territory.

"So, do we return to Redwall and report the discouraging find to them?" Deltus mused aloud. "My first visit to that Abbey was a happy one, the memory of which I will cherish forever. I would hate to go there for the second time in as many days bearing ominous news to dispel all the glad tidings I gave them yesterday. They are such a kind and happy folk, and I would not darken their hearts unnecessarily."

"What could we tell them anyway, sir? We don't really know ourselves what happened ... "

That seemed to decide the senior squirrel. Deltus slipped the shortsword into his own belt. "I'll just hang onto this for now, then, in case fortune proves my fears wrong and I do meet Cyril again someday, and have the opportunity to return this blade to its rightful owner. Failing that, I could always give it back to the Guosim if our paths and theirs ever cross again. But at least it's no longer in the paws o' this vile child thief!"

Deltus extracted his knives from the corpse, wiped them clean on some nearby leaves and replaced them in their respective harness sheaths. Then the three squirrels flung Mayk's lifeless form into some bushes, dragging enough forest debris over him to mostly hide the body. By the time they were finished, no casual passerby would ever guess that swift and violent death had stained this spot.

The squirrel trio climbed into the upper branches and resumed their homeward journey through the treetops. If the worst had indeed befallen Cyril, Deltus reasoned with himself, he supposed the Redwallers would learn of it sooner or later. There was no need to hurry news like that.


End file.
